


Yer a Redneck, Harry

by JMilz



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Comedy, Crack, Hillbilly, Methamphetamine, Multi, Other, Redneck - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:06:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 45
Words: 28,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27603932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JMilz/pseuds/JMilz
Summary: Harry Potter learns that he is a redneck.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Minerva McGonagall/Gellert Grindelwald, Hermione Granger/Harry Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 106
Kudos: 58





	1. The Boy Who Received Mountain Dew Cans

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the worst story ever told. This is not my usual style. This is unedited, pure crack. If you want something that's actually good, I recommend checking out my other works. If you're here for a laugh, enjoy.
> 
> Fair warning that this story is not politically correct in any capacity, and a lot of the crack elements here do not align with my own thoughts on difficult subjects.

**Year One**

Harry Potter had always been ordinary. He lived in an ordinary suburban home with his ordinary aunt and uncle and his ordinary cousin. He went to an ordinary school and rode an ordinary bus and had ordinary hobbies.

Ordinary, ordinary, ordinary.

Then, one day, he received a package. Harry never received mail, let alone packages. Greedily, he peeled away the tape and — 

“Mom! Harry’s got a package!” Dudley, his cousin, shouted.

“A package?” Aunt Petunia asked, hurrying into the hallway. “Who on Earth would send _you_ a package?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said, glancing at the sending address once more. “The name is a bit weird.”

“Albus Dumbledore . . .” she read. “It almost sounds like — no, it couldn’t be . . .”

“Couldn’t be what?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. Open it, will you?”

So Harry did. He wondered what this Albus Dumbledore character could possibly be sending him. He picked through the packing peanuts until he reached the bottom and felt something metallic.

“Well? What is it?” Dudley asked.

Harry pulled out the object and frowned.

It was a crumpled Mountain Dew can.

Petunia gasped and seized it.

“You can’t have this,” she said, hurriedly. “Go to your room!”

“But it’s mine — “

“Finders keepers, Potter,” Dudley said with a smirk.

So Harry went to his small room, wishing very much that he knew what the soda can meant.

* * *

Nineteen packages.

Harry had received no less than nineteen packages since he first received the Mountain Dew can, and every time he opened one before his aunt or uncle stopped him, he found another one.

What did they mean? Why was someone sending him Mountain Dew cans? Who was Albus Dumbledore?

Harry was contemplating this as Uncle Vernon plowed through the door and slammed it behind him. Red and out of breath, his eyes were pinned on Harry.

“ _You_ ,” he boomed, “go get your things packed.”

“Why? Are we going somewhere?”

“Yes. The lakehouse. For a good long while.” He narrowed his eyes. “PETUNIA! GET DUDLEY! WE’RE GOING TO THE LAKEHOUSE!”

* * *

It was the second day at the lakehouse — and Harry’s birthday. He was bored, and a bit sad that he never discovered the meaning of the Mountain Dew cans.

Then, just as Uncle Vernon fell into his deep, apneic snore, the door burst open.

Uncle Vernon woke with a start, seized his baseball bat, and began swinging. Harry had a feeling it wouldn’t have mattered even if he did hit the intruder. The man was a giant.

All of seven foot tall, he had a scraggly beard, a strange jacket, and stained pajama pants. Harry had never seen anyone like him.

“Oh, put the bat down, Vernon. We know ya ain’t got the balls to use it.” He raised his bushy brows at Dudley. “You got a potbelly on ya like your mama.”

“Excuse me!” Petunia shrieked. “I had a tummy tuck, thank you!”

The man frowned. “Oh, _you_ must be Harry then.” He approached Harry. “Shoulda figured. Yer daddy was always a skinny fella too. No idea how with all the Bud Light he used to drink.”

“My . . . dad? He drank Bud Light?”

“You didn’t know yer dad drank Bud Light?” 

“Well, my parents died in a car crash when I was little — “

“A CAR CRASH?”

Uncle Vernon winced. “What you have to understand — “

 _“A CAR CRASH?”_ the man repeated. “That’s a load of donkey shit! No way in hell would _a car crash_ kill Lily and James Potter!”

Harry frowned.

“Then how did they die?”

“A hunting accident, of course!” the man exclaimed. “Like any self-respectin’ one of us!”

“What do you mean by _us_?”

“That’s quite enough,” Aunt Petunia cut in. “Now, sir, I must insist that you leave — “

“Oh, no you don’t,” the man said, shaking his head. “Seems you and your idiot of a husband have been lyin’ to Harry all this time! Think he deserves to know the truth, don’t you?”

“The truth?”

“No, you can’t — “ Vernon stammered. “If you tell him — “

“Yer a redneck, Harry.”

Harry cocked an eyebrow. “I’m a what?”

“A redneck! And a doggone good one, I’d bet!”

“But I — I’m from the suburbs. I can’t be a — a _redneck_.”

Aunt Petunia made a terrible noise and sunk into Vernon’s arms.

“‘Course ya are! Your parents were some o’ the best! Lily could boil up a raccoon stew better ‘an anyone, and your dad! Your dad could shoot a squirrel from a hundred yards!”

“But that — they couldn’t be. Aunt Petunia says — “

“It’s true,” Aunt Petunia muttered. “It’s true. My sister and her husband — they were an embarrassment. Uneducated. Always eating roadkill. My parents were just _so_ proud of her. _She’s resourceful_ , they’d say. Well, look where it got her. Buried with a bullet in her brain.”

“Buckshot,” the man corrected her. “It was buckshot, you miserable, stupid city-slickin’ bimbo — ”

“That’s quite enough!” Uncle Vernon boomed. “That’s my wife, I’ll have you know!”

The man snorted. “Looks more like one o’ Old Man Ollivander’s fillies, if ya ask me!”

“Why did you come to find me?” Harry asked. “So what if my parents were rednecks? What’s with the showing up here in the middle of the night? And did you send the Mountain Dew cans?”

“Me?” the man asked. “No, no, no, no, no. That’d be Alfred Dumblin-Door.”

“But the name was — “

“He can’t spell good,” the man said. “He’s been tryin’ to get a hold of ya to bring you home to the hog farm.”

“The hog farm?” Harry asked.

“Yes! Where else would your parents have raised hogs?” the man said. “Can’t raise hogs without a hog farm.”

“But I didn’t — “

“It doesn’t matter. It’s your birthright. Oh! And I nearly forgot!” He pulled several squashed Twinkies from his pockets and shoved them in Harry’s hands. “Happy birthday, Harry.”


	2. The Gun Chooses the Redneck

“Ain’ she a beauty?” the man, who he discovered was called Hagrid, asked.

“It’s a — a — what do you call it?”

“ _What do you_ — ? They really messed you up, them Dursleys. It’s a four-wheeler, o’ course!”

“And you . . . you ride this thing around?”

“Yep. Came here all the way from the farm. Took me about 8 hours. Woulda taken the pickup truck but had my license revoked from a little run-in with Howie . . .”

“And who is Howie?”

“The sheriff,” Hagrid sniffed. “Stupid son of a bitch. I’d only had two beers! _Two!_ ”

“And you can drive this thing on the road without a license?”

Hagrid frowned. “I think so. Alfred always said it shouldn’t be a problem. Usually, I’d take the lawnmower but it just don’t get fast enough . . . Woulda taken me days! Anyway, hop on . . . Gonna be a long ride.”

* * *

It _had_ been a long ride. They rushed through civilization until there were barely any cars on the road. The further they got, the more tractors and Amish people they had to go around.

After pulling off an exit and taking a shortcut around a cornfield, they pulled into a dirt driveway with several oinking pigs and the smell of manure.

They hopped off the four-wheeler and Hagrid led him to the pigpen.

“Ain’t she a beauty?”

“She’s a pig,” Harry said.

“Exactly.” He led Harry past the fence and towards the farmhouse at the top of the hill. “Alfred’s gonna be happy to see ya.”

It was dilapidated, with shingles covered in moss and a rickety screen door that barely hung on. Hagrid knocked on the mangled siding.

“ALFRED!”

A moment passed and an old man with a long beard opened it. He reeked of liquor.

“Hagrid! Good to see you, buddy, good to see you. And this must be Harry!”

“Sure is. Here in one piece,” Hagrid said. “And uh — here’s what we talked about.”

He handed Alfred Dumblin-Door a small plastic bag. Harry frowned.

“Oh, you are a dear old friend, Hagrid. Harry! Come in, come in.” He raised his eyebrows. “Minerva is out feeding the chickens and Gellert is out scoping where he wants to put his deer blind this year.”

“What is a deer blind?” Harry asked.

“Oh, dear boy, you have so much to learn. It’s where we hunt from! You’ll hunt your own this year once we take you to Ollivander’s and get you a good gun.”

“A gun,” Harry repeated. “But I’m eleven.”

“A bit old, I know, but everyone has to start somewhere. Hagrid, would you mind taking Harry’s things to his new room and then taking him gun shopping?”

Hagrid nodded.

“Come on, Harry.”

Harry followed Hagrid to a small room with several stuffed birds.

“This is my room?”

“Yep. Consider yourself lucky. The other farmhands don’t get board, but Alfred wants to make sure yer taken care of.”

Harry touched one of the birds.

“They’re staring at me.”

Hagrid nodded. “Aye. Awesome, innit?”

* * *

Hagrid took him later that day to a small shop. An elderly man with wild hair handed him a gun.

“Take a shot at the target!”

“But — but we’re indoors — “

“Perfectly safe, my boy . . . See, there’s a safety switch! Yes, you’ll want to click that off there . . . There you are. Now pull!”

Harry pulled the trigger. The gun kicked so hard it nearly took his shoulder out of the socket.

“Ow!”

“Oh no! Okay, that might be a bit too much for you . . . Let’s try this one.”

So they tried several more guns, all of them kicking far too hard, until the man named Ollivander found one that he handed him called a Red Rider.

“Now, that’s a little smaller but I think it might do the trick.”

Harry pulled the trigger.

It didn’t kick at all.

“Aha! We have a match! And how will you be paying?”

Harry frowned. He hadn’t any money.

“I — I don’t know — “

“Oh, here we go,” Hagrid said, pulling a bottle from his camo jacket. It was full with a urine-colored liquid. “That should cover it.”

“Is this — is this what I think it is?” Ollivander asked. “But I thought — “

“Stored away for Harry’s inheritance.”

Ollivander shook his head. “Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I’ve never seen anything more beauitful . . .” 

“You have a good one, Ollivander. We gotta get back to the farm.”

“What was that?” Harry asked as they stepped outside.

“You mean the jar?”

“Yeah.”

“Your ma and pa’s famous moonshine. Will buy ya just about anything around here.”

“ _Moonshine?_ But I’m eleven.”

“Which is why you can only have a little sip of it,” Hagrid said, sternly. “Now let’s get ya back to the farm. You have a lot to learn.”


	3. Squirrel Sandwiches

“So there are a few things you’ll have to learn about our way of life,” Minerva said. “First, we never call Howie. We are armed for a reason. Second, you need to learn to care for the hogs.”

“Alfred said something about hunting?”

“Yes, you will need to learn that too. Moonshine making, you’ll learn, but you’ll do that with Snape. He’s busy meeting with the Riddles today.”

“The Riddles?”

Minerva took a deep breath. “You’ll learn all about them. Awful people. Tom is the one that hit your daddy with the buckshot.”

“The Riddles killed my dad?” Harry asked, appalled.

“Yes. Your mama too, when they realized they had a witness. They claim it wasn’t on purpose, but nobody believes them. They’re friends with Howie, though, so nothin’ came of it.” She raised an eyebrow. “Snape keeps them close so we can keep tabs on ‘em.”

“So what you’re telling me is my parents weren’t killed in an accident?”

Minerva shook her head. “Not at all, boy. Your parents’ moonshine drove the Riddles out of business.”

“How? What would my parents’ moonshine have to do with their business?”

“ _ That _ you will learn once you are older. Now come with me, I’m gonna show ya how to feed the chickens.”

* * *

Harry found he liked feeding the chickens, but he did not like the hog pens. The pigs stunk and rolled in their own poop.

“Good first day?” Alfred asked.

“Yes,” Harry said. “It smells really good in here.”

“Gellert’s making his famous squirrel sandwiches. A few of the neighbors will be joining us.”

Harry wasn’t sure he liked the sound of a squirrel sandwich, but when someone knocked at the door, he quickly forgot about it.

“Molly! Arthur!” Minerva exclaimed. “Oh, and I see you brought the kids.”

“Couldn’t very well leave ‘em, could I? Last time I did, Ronald put a hole in the wall.” Molly, a large woman with red hair, bolstered through the door. “An’ this one must be Lily and James’s boy?”

“Yes, yes,” Minerva replied. “Come in, come in.”

The family all had red hair, and there were  _ a lot  _ of them. They settled around the table, chattering amongst themselves, except a boy around Harry’s age, who awkwardly sat next to him.

“I’m Ron.”

“Harry.”

“Your parents were the moonshine folk, right?”

Harry nodded.

“Wow. They’re like legends around here, you know. Ollivander even had targets made of your mama after she died.”

“That seems really mean,” Harry said with a frown.

“Oh no, no! Was meant to be a sign of respect.” Ron grinned. “Want to see my pet rat?”

“You have a pet rat?”

“Yep,” Ron said, pulling the writhing creature from his pocket. “Call him Scabbers.”

“Scabbers,” Harry repeated. “That’s a terrible name.”

Ron shrugged.

“Dinner’s cooling off!” Gellert, a well-dressed man with a mustache, announced. “We’re just missing the — “

There was another knock on the door, which Alfred answered. Two people, a man and a woman, came in. They were much more well-dressed than everyone except Gellert.

“Hello, sorry we’re late, everyone. This town apparently hasn’t heard of putting down the Mountain Dew. My last patient had seventeen cavities.”

As the man hung his coat, Harry caught a glimpse of the small girl that was behind him.

She was pretty. The prettiest girl Harry had ever seen. Not that he’d been interested in girls very long . . . He  _ was _ only eleven.

She found a place at the table across from him, next to the only daughter among the many redheads.

“You must not be from around here.”

“I’m — I’m new,” Harry stammered. “I’m er — I’m Harry.”

“Hermione.” She glared at Ronald. “Has this idiot shown you his rat yet?”

“Hey! I’m not an idiot!”

“You are,” Hermione replied. She grinned. “But he’s alright for being stupid. How are you liking working on the farm?”

“I like it.” It was only a partial lie.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Ready for squirrel sandwiches?” Gellert asked, placing a giant platter in the middle of the table. In the middle of it was what looked like rotisserie squirrels, mayonnaise, and Wonderbread. “Bon apper teet.”

The squirrel sandwiches, to Harry’s surprise, were not so bad.


	4. Shootin' Skeet and Makin' Moonshine

“And  _ how _ much barley do we need?”

Severus Snape loomed over Harry, his arms crossed and his hook nose far too deep in Harry’s business.

“I don’t know. I’ve never made moonshine before.”

“But you read the recipe, didn’t you?”

“It was all smudged! I couldn’t read anything!”

Snape shook his head. “Well, that’s not my problem . . . On that note, it’s  _ two _ bags of barley.”

“Two bags, got it,” Harry said.

“So are you ready to brew your first batch?”

Harry’s eyes widened.

“What? I was just — I was just learning. I didn’t think — you  _ know _ I’m eleven, right?”

“Hmm . . . yes, a bit old, I know, but they say you can teach an old dog new tricks.”

* * *

Harry found he didn’t like making moonshine at all. It smelled bad and his shoulders hurt from hauling bags of barley and flaked corn. He was glad to be back at the hog farm, feeding the pigs.

He never thought he would be glad to be feeding pigs.

“How did your first day of making moonshine go?” Hagrid asked.

“Terrible. Snape hates me.”

“And everyone hates Snape, but he’s good at what he does, so ya ought to listen to him.” Hagrid sighed. “The only one that has yer mama’s recipe. He won’t sell it, though.”

“Why? It’s valuable, isn’t it?”

“Well, only you are supposed to do it. He respects her wishes.”

One of the pigs oinked happily and rolled in its own shit before coming to the trough to eat. Harry grimaced.

“I think tomorrow I don’t have much to do.”

Hagrid chuckled. “Nope! Hermione’s gonna teach ya to shoot.”

“I already did that at Ollivander’s.”

Hagrid chuckled. “You shot a target that was ten feet away. You need to learn to shoot somethin’ that moves.”

* * *

Hermione’s house was much nicer than the farmhouse. Two stories tall with all leather furniture and trophies everywhere, it reminded him of the Dursleys’.

The only difference was the taxidermy.

Everywhere he looked, there were dead animals. Deer. Birds. Foxes. A bear. Even some animals he couldn’t quite name.

“. . . and this trophy was for shooting the most skeet in under a minute — hey, are you listening to me?”

“Yes, yes of course. Shooting . . . skeet. Right.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “You won’t be using that little Red Rider today, by the way. I have a Remington pump-action twelve guage you’ll be using.”

“A twelve guage?” Harry asked, appalled. He remembered that one from Ollivander’s. It kicked hard.

“Yes. A twelve guage. You can’t shoot skeet with a little baby gun like yours.”

Nervous, Harry followed Hermione to a large room towards the back of the house. It was dark wood, decorated with more dead animals than he’d seen anywhere else, and several glass cabinets lined the walls, all full of guns.

“We bought this one off the Malfoys,” Hermione said, reaching into one of the cabinets. She seized a large, shiny gun. “So you better take care of it! It was expensive.”

“Who are the Malfoys? I thought Ollivander sold all the guns here.”

Hermione snorted. “Ollivander sells guns to poor people. If you want quality, you go to the Malfoys. They’re collectors. Anyway, let’s get you some birdshot.”

They collected several boxes of what Hermione called birdshot and then he followed her out a sliding glass door to the backyard. There were several orange clay discs piled around.

“ _ These _ are skeet. Clay pigeons. Dummy pigeons. Whatever you want to call them,” Hermione said, picking one up. She picked up a contraption that looked kind of like a crossbow. “And this is a throwing arm. You put one in here,” she went on, shoving one of the clay pigeons into the strange thing, “and then you pull it back, it will launch the skeet, and then you shoot it. Here. Launch it and I’ll show you.”

Hermione lifted the twelve guage into the crevice of her arm.

“And go!”

Harry pulled back on the contraption and the small clay pigeon launched into the air. Before he could even cover his ears, the gun boomed and the skeet shattered into a million pieces.

“Wow,” he breathed. “That was amazing!”

“Yeah, I know. Now, you try.”

“M-me?”

“Yes, you.” She swiped away the throwing arm and shoved the gun into his hands. “You ready? On three. One . . . two . . . three!”

The clay pigeon zoomed into the air, and Harry did shoot, but he only felt it knock his shoulder out of place and the clay pigeon fell to the ground.

“Ow!” he exclaimed, though he immediately felt stupid for it.

“You didn’t hold your gun right,” Hermione muttered. “Idiot.”

“I — I could try again,” he stammed, though he really didn’t want to try again at all.

“Nope,” she said. “My parents will kill me if your stupid rich family sues them. Come here.”

He felt her grab his shoulder and his heart stuttered for a minute.

Then all he felt was pain.

“What the heck!”

“Dislocated shoulder. Had to fix it for you.”

“You could’ve  _ warned _ me, you know!”

She snorted. “Then you would’ve run.”


	5. Lawnmower Wizard

Months went by and it felt like Harry kept doing the same thing over and over — perhaps, it was because, he was. He cleaned the pig pens, he fed the chickens, he attempted to make moonshine only for Snape to yell at him, and he missed clay pigeons over and over.

He was starting to think he wasn’t a redneck at all.

One day, he came downstairs, feeling particularly put out by the whole thing, wondering if he should go back to the Dursleys. In the living room, he saw Gellert and Alfred huddled together, using a blowtorch on something that looked like a lightbulb.

“Alfred?”

Alfred coughed and smoke came from his nose and mouth. Immediately, he hid the blowtorch and the lightbulb.

“Harry! Harry, my boy, lovely to see you’re up . . . Um, let’s just forget what you just saw, yeah? And let’s especially not tell Minerva what you saw.”

“Um, okay,” Harry agreed.

“Speaking of which, today Minerva has a special treat for you.”

“And what’s that?”

“Oh, you’ll see.”

* * *

Harry met with Minerva in the chicken coop, but she had already fed the chickens. She dragged him to the very back of the farm, where the woods met the barn.

There were several beat-up lawnmowers.

“Every year, we have a demolition derby. Between events, kids your age get to do their own derby,” she explained, “on  _ these _ .”

“Lawnmowers,” Harry said.

“Yes. Now, this is just a test run. You can’t participate in the event til you’re twelve, but we want to teach you how to drive them. A few of the neighbors will be joining us, shortly, and then we’ll get started.”

Several beat-up cars and pickup trucks pulled right past the barn into the grass. Hermione, Ron, and a few other people he didn’t recognize got out of the vehicles. He was rather pleased when Hermione chose a lawnmower beside his.

“Now, this is Hooch. She’s going to teach you how to drive them.”

Hooch, a woman with spiky grey hair, took a big drink from a flask.

“I’ve been drivin’ a lawnmower since ‘86 full time,” she explained. “No deck, of course. All of these have had the deck removed too — for your safety. Now, we’re gonna keep it in the low gears while you get to learnin’. So crawl on up there, put your foot on the brake, and pull that lever there for first gear.”

Everyone did as they were told. A blond boy a few people away scoffed.

The lawnmowers did not go fast.

“Good, now brake.”

They all did as they were told — except one boy.

A chubby boy with buck teeth accidentally pushed the lever and was darting around. He steered to and fro, and Hooch and Minerva got into a pickup truck and chased him.

“Oh look! He dropped his little action figure!”

The blond boy, laughing, hopped down from his lawnmower and was making crude gestures with the action figure.

“Stop it!” Harry growled, looking for the adults but seeing they were long gone, chasing after the bucktooth boy.

“Why?” the boy asked. He mounted his lawnmower. “Not like you can catch me.”

The boy then put his lawnmower into high gear, and Harry followed suit. His foot was still on the brake, and the boy was making distance between them.

“No, Harry!” Hermione yelled. “You’ll get in trouble!”

“I don’t care!”

Harry tore through the meadow, chasing after the blond boy. Then, the blond boy, laughing, threw the action figure and zoomed back to the rest of the kids. Harry groaned and darted after the action figure.

Then, he heard the pickup truck.

With a sigh, he picked up the action figure, stopped the lawnmower, and prepared for his punishment.


	6. Whiskey

“I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”

Minerva, who he was now alone with in the pickup truck, stared at him. She rolled the windows up, drowning out the sound of Madam Hooch shouting orders at the other children.

“That was some good lawnmower drivin’, Potter.”

“What?”

She sighed. “Look, usually you’d be in trouble, but what you did out there was amazing . . . We want you to drive on behalf of the farm.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “What?”

“The demolition derby. There is an indoor track a couple towns over. We’re gonna have you represent the farm.”

“But I thought you had to be twelve. I’ve only just turned eleven a few months ago.”

“Well, usually that’s true, but we’re making an exception . . . if you’re up for it, of course.”

“Of course I am!” Harry exclaimed. “And what about the blond boy? Will he be driving?”

“Draco Malfoy? No, no, he won’t be driving.”

“Draco? That’s a weird name.”

“His parents are yuppies,” she snorted. “Now, you’ll have to practice. The Wood boy will be training you over the next few weeks.”

* * *

Harry found he liked driving with Oliver Wood. Oliver was just a few years older than him.

“You need to get ready to brace for impact,” Oliver explained. He belched and spit his tobacco onto the ground. “You should drink a beer before.”

“But I’m eleven.”

“Some whiskey, then,” Oliver said. “If you’re drunk, there’s no way you can lose.”

“But don’t I have to keep the lawnmower moving?”

“Yes, and if you’re drunk, you’ll push it til the end. Well, maybe not drunk, but had a little bit. A capful of whiskey maybe.”

“Have you ever drank whiskey?”

“Me and my boyf —” He cleared his throat. “Me and Marcus Flint drink it a lot.”

“Can you get me some?”

“Before the derby, I’ll get you as much as you want.”

* * *

Hagrid joined them for dinner that night, another one of Gellert’s creations: raccoon surprise. Harry wasn’t sure what the surprise part was if he ws willing to admit it was raccoon, but he liked most of Gellert’s meals so far, so he assumed it would be fine.

“Heard you were gonna be in the derby.”

“Yes,” Harry said.

“Impressive stuff.” He cleared his throat. “I was actually hopin’ you could help me tomorrow. The Weasleys got some moles that need removin’.”

“Moles . . . like on their skin?”

“No! In their yard! I ain’t no doctor . . .”

“So we have to kill moles?”

“You got your gun, right?”

“Well yes, but — “

“Great! I’ll pick ya up tomorrow at noon.”


	7. Moles and Guns

The Weasleys lived in a house far too small for their family. It was a trailer, and half the roof had caved in, so they’d replaced it with bright blue tarp.

“FRED! GEORGE! YOU PUT HIM DOWN!”

Hagrid walked right into the apparently unlocked house and saw the twins swinging Ron from his hands and feet. He was shrieking something awful, but it was nowhere near as loud as Mrs. Weasley.

They dropped him with a loud thud.

“Was just preparing to throw him in the pig trough,” Fred said. “They eat humans, you know.”

“Yep. Read about some murderer downstate that fed his victims to them.”

Ron squealed, quite like one of the pigs in question, and scrambled away.

“Hagrid, Harry, great to see ya, great to see ya,” Mr. Weasley said, peeking over his newspaper. He wore a wifebeater with his belly sticking out. “Here for the moles?”

He let out a big, giant fart.

“Good one, Arthur. Eatin’ yer beans, I see,” Hagrid chuckled. “But yep, here for the moles. Out back, are they?”

“God, I hope so. If they’re anywhere else, Molly will kill me.”

“We’ll find ‘em,” Hagrid said. He elbowed Harry. “Won’t we, Harry?”

“Uh — yeah, I guess so.”

“RON! Go help Harry and Hagrid. Ginny, you too.”

Harry saw the tiny girl scrambling out from behind the counter.

“But aren’t we using guns — ?” Harry asked.

“Yes, of course, what else would you use?” Mr. Weasley chuckled. He plucked some lint from his bellybutton. “Go on, Gin! Get your gun!”

Tiny Ginny ran down the hallway and entered a room. It wasn’t long til she returned with a gun twice her size.

Harry wasn’t sure she should have it at all, but she seemed comfortable enough. Ron went to get his, and then they all went to the backyard.

* * *

BOOM! BOOM!

There were lots of holes in the backyard, but Harry was losing track which ones they had shot in the ground and which ones were already there. So far, Hagrid had shot three moles, and he was tucking them in a bag over his shoulder.

“Dinner fer later,” he said.

“We’ll . . . eat these?”

“Why not?” Hagrid asked. “You kids ready for Hagrid’s famous mole soup?”

“Mole soup! That’s my favorite!” Ginny exclaimed.

“It really is great, Harry! You’ll find out,” Ron exclaimed. “Ope, there’s one!”

Ron shot at another hole.

* * *

Mole soup was the first thing Harry decided he didn’t like, but Ron and Ginny seemed to love it. Mrs. Weasley was clipping her toenails beside the older brother, Percy, on the couch.

“OW! That was my eye!” he exclaimed.

“Then don’t be so close to my feet!”

“Ugh! You’re  _ disgusting _ ! Couldn’t you do that  _ anywhere _ else?”

“Stop bein’ such a pussy, Percy,” Fred snorted.

“Yeah, Percy! Stop being such a pussy!”

Percy grumbled and pushed his bowl of mole soup away from him.

“So any plans for the holidays, Harry?” Mr. Weasley asked.

“I don’t know. I thought I’d go back to the Dursleys’ but they haven’t replied to my letters. I guess I’ll probably just stay at the farm.”

“Well, you’ll get a big fresh pig, then,” Mr. Weasley said. He let out a fart. “Mole soup always gives me gas.”

Ginny raced to her father. “Pull my finger, daddy, pull my finger!”

So he did, and a small squeak came from her bottom.

“Well, wasn’t that impressive!” he said, proudly. “Just like her dad, this one.”

Mrs. Weasley went red. “Her dad. Right.”

Harry frowned, unsure what made her red, but decided it was best left alone. He was, after all, more focused on the holidays. What  _ was _ he going to do for Christmas?


	8. Christmas Camo

_ Dear Harry, _

_ We will be going to Maui for the holidays. Please stay there with Mr. Dumblin-Door for Christmas. _

_ Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon _

Harry wasn’t sure what to make of the letter. He and his aunt and uncle had never gotten along particularly well, but they were still the closest thing he had to parents. Staying on the hog farm with Alfred, Gellert, and Minerva did not feel quite right.

But he didn’t have a choice.

So on Christmas, he woke up late to the smell of something cooking. He went downstairs and was happy to discover Gellert was making simple, wonderful eggs.

It had been a long time since he’d just had . . .  _ eggs _ .

“Good morning, Harry! Merry Christmas!” Minerva said from behind her newspaper.

“I haven’t had eggs in so long,” Harry said, sitting down at the table. “Smells good.”

“They’re from the chickens,” Minerva said. “It takes a long time to get a dozen but they are worth it.”

Harry scraped several scrambled eggs onto his plate and, as he was scarfing them all down, Alfred walked into the room with a box wrapped in newspaper.

“Harry, this is for you.”

“A present?” Harry asked. “For me?”

“Yes.”

Harry took the gift and unwrapped it. It was toaster box.

“A toaster?”

“No, not a toaster. Open the box.”

Frowning, Harry opened the toaster box and looked inside. He gasped and pulled out a camo outfit. There was also an orange vest.

“What is this?”

“Your father’s hunter’s orange and camo,” Alfred said, softly. He was tearing up. “He very much wanted you to have it.”

Harry looked up at him.

“Will I hunt in this?”

Alfred gave him the nod.

“In due time.”


	9. Rotted Barley

Again, Harry was trying to shoot skeet with Hermione, except this time, they were knee-deep in the snow.

“How was your Christmas, Harry?” she asked.

“Good. I got my dad’s camo and hunter’s orange. Alfred kept it for me.”

Hermione shot one of the skeet. “Wow, Harry, that’s a very special gift.”

Harry missed a clay pigeon and his ears went red.

“I’ll show it to you if you want sometime? Maybe . . . when we hunt together?”

She cocked an eyebrow. “When you shoot better, we can talk about going hunting.”

* * *

“ _ Still _ you’re doing it wrong!” Snape shouted, gesturing the rotting barley in the bathtub. “An idiot, just like your daddy!”

“My dad wasn’t an idiot!”

“He  _ was _ an idiot!”

“No he wasn’t!”

“If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have went hunting with Tom fucking Riddle!”

Harry kicked over a bag of barley and ran out of the old bathroom.

* * *

Harry could barely eat his raccoon surprise. He pushed around his food with his fork, ignoring the gaze of Alfred, Minerva, and Gellert.

“What’s wrong, Harry?” Minerva asked. “You’ve barely eaten.”

He didn’t look at her.

“Do you think the Riddles will ever pay for what they did to my parents?”

Alfred suddenly started choking. Gellert smacked him on the back.

Minerva chewed on her lip with the few teeth she had.

“The Riddles are very bad people. You’ll get ‘em back, Harry. Somehow, you will.”

“I want to kill him. Tom. I want him dead.”

“Well, Harry, you can’t say things like that,” Gellert said. “Sure, Tom is a bit of a bad egg but — “

“A bad egg! He killed my parents!”

“Well, yes but — “

“I don’t feel very hungry,” Harry spat, getting up from his seat. He started marching away.

“Don’t forget tomorrow is the derby!” Alfred shouted. “You’ll be representing the hog farm, Harry, so I expect you to do your best!”

Harry ignored him.


	10. The Great Lawnmower Derby

The lawnmowers were revving. Harry’s heart was thumping in his ears, and despite all of his anger, Harry knew he had to keep his head in the game.

“THREE! TWO! ONE! GO!”

He put the lawnmower in third gear and let go of the brake. There was a girl with beautiful dark hair that was headed towards him at full speed, but he circled around her and she hit the wall, smashing the entire front end of her John Deere lawnmower.

She revved it a few times but it didn’t start again.

“CHO CHANG IS OUT!”

Cho Chang cursed and crossed her arms as she watched the rest of them keep going. Harry was staring at her, thinking to himself that she was even prettier than Hermione, when he felt someone hit the back of his mower.

He gasped and kicked it into fourth gear.

He darted across the stadium, listening to the crashes and the announcements of people’s lawnmowers stopping.

“POTTER IS HEADING FOR FLINT! OOOH! AND MARTIN FLINT MAY BE OUT OF THE GAME!”

Harry had reamed into the back of a dark-haired boy on a Craftsman mower. The boy snarled and tried backing up, but Harry was driving into the back of the mower with all his might, sending sparks flying.

He really was starting to think they needed to be wearing helmets of some sort.

The ref waved a flag at him, which Harry learned meant to lay off.

Harry backed up the lawnmower — right into another mower.

He was trapped between Martin, Marcus Flint’s younger brother, and the blonde girl that was backing up and now repeatedly hitting him with her mower.

The flag waved.

The girl backed up and Harry followed suit.

Martin revved his engine, but he couldn’t move.

“AND FLINT IS OUT!”

When Harry got himself turned around, he realized it was down to him and the blonde girl. Nervously, he revved his engine and stared her down.

She smirked at him.

Her lawnmower was in much better shape than his. It was shiny, a Black and Decker that was many years newer than his old Honda.

Harry still had to go for it.

He put his lawnmower into sixth gear. She did the same.

And they went straight for each other.

CRASH!

They crashed into each other and their front ends both crumpled. Harry kept going, kept driving, kept pushing.

So did she.

Sparks were flying between the two of them. He actually saw one fly into her hair, and he was nearly hoping it caught fire so she’d stop.

But she didn’t.

They kept driving into each other for what felt like hours until finally, the ref gave them the flag.

They both backed off — or tried to.

Neither of them could move.

The ref got very close and watched. Harry revved. He tried to move but the lawnmower was going nowhere.

Until finally . . . it budged.

It was just an inch, and then the engine died.

The blonde despearately revved her engine too, but her engine died before it moved a muscle.

“AND DAVIS IS OUT! LAST TO MOVE WAS POTTER! POTTER WINS!”

Harry got off his lawnmower and raced to a proud Hermione, Hagrid, Ron, Minerva, and Alfred. Gellert came back with a corndog in his hand, which he had somehow gotten down all the way down his throat.

“Oh my God, Harry! I can’t believe you won!” Hermione shouted, throwing her arms around his neck.

Harry blushed. He was pretty sure a girl had never hugged him before.

“First car crash, I assume?” Hagrid joked.

Pulling away from Hermione, Harry blinked.

“I’m eleven, Hagrid.”


	11. Clay Pigeon

“Harry! That was a perfect shot!”

Hermione was staring at him in awe, and Harry could feel his ears going red. The clay pigeon had shattered in a million pieces and fallen to the ground and he had never felt more accomplished.

“Will your aunt and uncle let you keep practicing at the house?”

Harry snorted. “No.”

His aunt and uncle had told him he would be returning at the end of June for summer, which was drawing near. The months had gone by in a blur, but he was getting used to living on the hog farm. Shooting with Hermione and feeding the chickens had become part of his routine and now that he was going to be without it, he didn’t know what to do.

At least he wouldn’t have to see Snape for awhile.

“It’s okay, Harry. We can practice when you come back.”

“Yeah,” he said sadly. “When I get back.”

The truth was, he didn’t know if he would be back. His aunt and uncle wanted to know more about how he was being homeschooled, and the truth was, he hadn’t learned anything that could be considered schoolwork.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t learning, though.

Hooch taught him how to fix the lawnmower after the derby. He had nearly managed to get the moonshine recipe right. He learned what pigs ate and how to wrangle a rooster. He shot a clay pigeon, for God’s sake!

Harry Potter was a real redneck.

And he feared going back to the Dursleys’ might undo all of it.

* * *

When Harry reached the farmhouse, he wasn’t sure whether he was elated or sad. The closer he got to the house, he realized he could hear voices.

From the kitchen window, Minerva, Gellert, and Alfred were talking.

“ . . . and he’s not going to stop until someone races him.”

“And if we all refuse?” Minerva asked. “If nobody agrees to race him?”

“Then I’m afraid he may come take it from us.”

Harry stifled a gasp.

“But Harry — he’s a child! Alfred, this is insane — “

“Harry is the rightful heir to the moonshine recipe. Tom will care about his safety least of anyone.”

“Well, we can’t race him, can we?” Gellert pointed out. “He’s undefeated.”

“Gellert’s right,” Minerva agreed. “With all that meth money he’ll be able to buy a mower better than anything we can come up with.”

Alfred sighed.

“Then we will need to grab our guns and prepare for a shootout. The Riddles want their money.”

Harry burst through the door.

“I’ll do it! I’ll race Tom Riddle.”

They gasped.

“Harry, surely you know you can’t . . .” Minerva said.

“I’m good on a mower. Better than he is, I’ll bet.”

“Harry, you’re good for your age but you only have derby experience . . . Racing is entirely different,” Minerva said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait at the Weasleys’ while we prepare for our shootout with Riddle.”

“No!” Harry shouted. “I will race him and I will win! I owe it to my parents!”

The room went quiet.

After a moment, Alfred lightly said, “You do understand that if you lose, we will owe them double? And the only thing that could pay such a sum is your moonshine recipe.”

Harry gulped. He hadn’t known that.

“The moonshine recipe?”

Alfred nodded.

“Are you prepared to take such a risk?”

Harry thought for a moment.

“Yes. I’m willing to take it.”

Gellert sighed.

“I’ll call Tom.”


	12. The Riddle Race

Tom Riddle, Harry found out, had been the victim of a terrible explosion. Alfred and Minerva weren’t quite clear on what the explosion was, but it had left him bald and without a nose.

Harry couldn’t stop staring at him.

They sat at the starting line, their engines idling as they prepared for the announcer to tell them to start. Harry glanced in the stands and blanched. Hermione was there, holding a sign that said “GO HARRY GO!”

Ron was beside her, but he didn’t seem focused on the race. He was fumbling with his rat.

“Ready to eat my dust, Potter?”

“You wish, Riddle!”

The microphone squawked in protest as someone bumped it. Then, someone said, “Are you ready to get this one-on-one race on?”

Tom revved his engine, and Harry followed suit.

“Okay, then ready, set, go!”

Harry let go of the brake. The lawnmower zoomed forward, hugging Riddle’s. He snorted and picked it up a gear.

Harry wasn’t prepared for how fast Riddle’s mower was.

He made a lot of space between himself and Harry, earning several cheers from the crowd. Harry gulped, wishing there was something he could do, but he couldn’t.

He hugged the median, hoping to make up for lost space.

“I TOLD YOU, POTTER! I TOLD YOU THAT YOU’D LOSE!”

But Riddle had accidentally ridden up onto the median. It slowed him down, and Harry was able to pull up on his left.

_ How can you win that he won’t expect? _

That was when he did it.

He reamed into the back of Riddle’s mower as hard as he could.

“What are you — ? This isn’t a derby!”

“But the rules don’t say I can’t hit you!” Harry shouted. He sideswiped Riddle on the left, made some distance between them, and them reamed into him on the side.

“Stop it! Stop it at once!”

“NO!”

Harry did it again, this time, sending Riddle spinning. Grinning, Harry went as fast as he could towards the finish line. But Riddle came up on his side.

“You’ll pay for that, you stupid, stupid —”

Riddle sideswiped him and it was a game of pulling away and smashing into each other’s sides for several minutes. The crowd roared and booed and cheered.

They were near the finish line, and Riddle was revving his engine again.

Harry wouldn’t allow it.

He veered off onto the side, as far as he could, and then as quickly as he could, he turned the wheel hard left.

The impact was brutal.

Harry felt the lawnmower rock from coming into contact with Riddle’s, but it fell back onto the ground and, despite it being slow, kept creeping forward.

Riddle, however, had fallen onto the ground.

The lawnmower had landed on his legs.

He was shrieking in agony, but Harry couldn’t be bothered. He pulled past the finish line and grinned as the crowd cheered.

He had won.

* * *

“I can’t believe you won, Harry!” Hermione exclaimed. “You did amazing!”

“Yeah, you did do pretty good,” Ron said. “Too bad you have to go back to the Dursleys’. You could’ve made some good money mowin’ the golf courses by the river.”

“Yeah, well, I think I’ll be back,” Harry said. “The hog farm is kind of like home, you know? I don’t think I could stay away very long.”

“So you’ll visit?” Hermione asked, longingly.

“Of course. As soon as the Dursleys allow it, I’ll be back.”


	13. The Car and the Ladder

**Year Two**

Harry was growing sick of the Dursleys’. Tom Riddle had to have surgery on his legs, so his aunt and uncle decided Alfred, Minerva, and Gellert were bad influences. Rather than letting him go back to the hog farm, they decided to send him back to public school, and Harry was dreading it.

“Oh, Vernon! Get the camera! Dudley’s school uniform is just  _ darling _ !”

Harry rather thought Dudley looked a bit like a sausage. His hands were ballooning out of the long sleeves and the seams of his shorts were under great duress.

“Why do I have to wear a uniform?” Dudley asked, frowning at the mirror. “I look like an idiot!”

Harry smirked.

“Wipe that smirk off your face!” Aunt Petunia hissed. “He’s  _ handsome _ .”

“I didn’t say anything,” Harry said. “I’m just going to go fold my  _ normal _ clothes — you know, the ones I’ll be wearing to  _ my _ school.”

Dudley grumbled as Harry skipped off, though Petunia was still grumbling about how disrespectful he was.

When he reached his room, he found someone inside and stifled a scream.

“Harry Potter!” the tiny man growled. He spit onto Harry’s carpet. “Pleased ta meet ya. They call me Dobby.”

“I — why are you here?” Harry asked the little person. “You — how did you get in?”

The man gestured the open window and held up a jackknife. Harry groaned.

“My aunt and uncle are going to kill me for that!”

“Yeah well, you’ll have to deal with that as it comes.” He cleared his throat loudly, causing Harry to grit his teeth. “Alfred was talkin’ about tryin’ to convince them to let ya come back to the hog farm.”

Harry’s eyes widened.

“You think he could get them to allow it? I’ve been asking them to take me to visit, but they keep telling me no.”

The little man called Dobby shook his head.

“Nope. And it’s for your own good! The hog farm is dangerous, Potter. Real dangerous.”

“What d’you mean?” Harry asked. “Dangerous?”

“I mean that bad things are brewin’ back home, and it would be a very dangerous place for you.”

“But —”

“That’s all I came here to say. Be careful, Harry Potter. I’ll be on my way now.”

And with that, he went back to the window and shimmied through the cut screen.

* * *

Alfred did indeed contact the Dursleys, but after they found the hole cut in his window, they were convinced sending him to the hog farm was a bad idea, so they decided against it.

Harry didn’t think he’d ever be able to go back.

Then, one day while he was reading in his bed, a rock hit his window.

Harry frowned and walked over to it. There was a rock between the screen and the glass, clearly having went through the giant hole that Dobby had left. When he looked down, he saw Ron, Fred, and George.

Harry glanced back at his door. Downstairs, he could hear the TV blaring and Uncle Vernon complaining about golf.

Harry opened the window.

“You can’t be here!” he hissed. “You’re going to get me in trouble!”

Ron, Fred, and George exchanged looks.

“We’ve come to take you back to the farm!”

Harry looked at his door again.

“I can’t! My aunt and uncle will kill me!”

“They won’t if you don’t get caught!”

“I think they’ll notice I’m gone!”

“And you really think they’re going to come to get you once they do?”

Harry considered it for a moment. They probably wouldn’t.

“How did you even get here? There’s not enough room for four people on a lawnmower, you know!”

“We took Dad’s pickup!” George yelled. “Plenty of room!”

“Okay, but I can’t exactly get down there, can I? This is a second-story window!”

They all grinned. The twins disappeared for a moment and reappeared with a giant ladder.

Harry’s eyes widened.

Quickly, he shoved his clothes in a duffel bag and shimmed down the ladder, but just as he busted through, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia came through through the door.

“The curtains are open, boy! I could see the ladder through the bay window!”

“Yeah, well good luck catching me!”

Harry dropped down the last few rungs and pulled the ladder away from Vernon’s grasp. He quickly ran to the pickup with Ron and the twins and got inside.

They were going to the hog farm after all.


	14. Snitches Get Stitches

Snape was the first person Harry ran into at the hog farm, and he wasn’t happy about the circumstances.

“You rode with three boys without a drivers’ license between them!” he shouted. “Do you have any idea how worried we’ve all been? You could’ve been arrested!”

“I’m sorry, Snape. If — if Minerva and Alfred decide I can’t be on the farm anymore, I’ll understand.”

“If it was up to me you’d already be back on your aunt and uncle’s doorstep!” He narrowed his eyes. “But it’s not. When Alfred and Minerva get home, we’ll decide what to do with you.”

* * *

Alfred and Minerva didn’t seem to mind that Harry took the risk at all. They were, however, worried what would’ve happened if the cops caught him, so they made him do their dishes. They were disgusting — almost like they hadn’t been done since Harry was last there.

The Dursleys were told the punishment was much harsher than that.

“Alfred,” Harry said, washing up the last cup, “a man called Dobby told me that I was in danger here. Do you know what he meant?”

Alfred took a deep breath.

“Things have been strange around here lately. Riddle’s son has been taking the business very seriously.”

“What do you mean?”

“Strange messages. Warnings to those of us that stand between them and their goal.”

“And what is their goal?”

“To run the town. They want your moonshine recipe more than anything, but in the meantime, they’re going to keep selling their other product.”

“And you buy it, don’t you?”

Alfred paled. “It’s all very complicated, Harry. Sometimes we take what we need from the Riddles, but all in all, the town would be better without them.”

“Can’t you just turn them in to the cops?”

“The cops! Howie is good friends with the Riddles,” Alfred said. “It’s best we handle these things differently. But you don’t need to worry about those things. Just keep your nose clean, Harry. Riddle’s son is nowhere near as dangerous as him, so as long as you don’t go anywhere alone, you’ll be fine.”

Harry nodded, but still, he feared Riddle’s son.

* * *

The next day, there was someone at breakfast Harry didn’t recognize.

“Hello Harry, I’m Gilderoy Lockhart. I’ve heard all about you.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Gilderoy Lockhart. Surely you’ve heard of me?”

He sounded British. Harry frowned.

“Gilderoy has been hunting all over the world,” Gellert quipped. He was fussing with his hair. “He’s come to help us on the deer hunt this year.”

“Yes, Alfred said there was a bear on the property so I thought I would come scope him out!”

Harry didn’t think he liked the man very much.

“Cool,” he muttered. “Erm — can I go to Hermione’s today?”

“Of course,” Alfred said. “I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see you.”

* * *

“Harry!”

Hermione gave Harry the hug he had been waiting for since he got back to town. She was taller than him now, having gone through a summer growth spurt.

“Hermione!”

“I’m so glad you’re back!”

He grinned. “Me too.”

“And just in time for Gilderoy Lockhart!” She sighed deeply. “He’s a legend, you know. And so . . . “ She blushed. “Talented.”

Harry did not quite like the way she said “talented.”

“Do you want to shoot something? My dad got us a new deer target.”

Harry grinned.

* * *

Shooting the deer target was the most fun Harry had ever had. He and Hermione had to shoot it a hundred times, leaving shell casings pooling around their feet.

“I’m out of shells,” Hermione said, peeking into the ammo box. “All for the best, probably. I’m getting a bit hungry.”

“Oh, right . . . Sorry, I’ll go home —”

“Don’t be stupid. You can eat here. We have  _ actual _ venison, not roadkill like you eat over at the hog farm.”

Harry raised his eyebrows.

As they circled around the house to go inside for lunch, somthing caught Harry’s eye.

In blood, there was a message scrawled across Hermione’s house.

_ We’re cooking again. Snitches get stitches. _

Hermione screamed and her parents rushed out.

“Hermione! What’s wrong — oh. Oh my.” Mr. Granger sucked in a deep breath. “Inside, kids. Both of you. Now.”


	15. Lucky Rabbit Foot and Illiterate People

“Oh dear,” Minerva said, upon finding out about the writing on the wall. “Oh dear . . .”

Harry frowned. “What is it? What does it mean?”

She took a deep breath. “It means that Riddle Jr. has done what we feared most. It means that Riddle Jr. has broken into the Secret Meth Lab.”

“The Secret Meth Lab?” Harry asked. “But I thought they already cooked meth?”

“They did. But legend has it the Secret Meth Lab has the most potent meth ingredients known to man.” She gulped. “What people will do for this meth is beyond our wildest dreams, I fear.”

“Like what?” Harry whispered. “ _ What _ will they do?”

“Bad, bad things . . . They might even — “ She was interrupted by a crash in the living room. She put a finger to her mouth. “You cannot repeat what I’ve just told you to Alfred or Gellert. Do you understand me?”

“But — “

_ “Do you understand me?” _

Harry nodded.

“Run on, then. The chickens won’t feed themselves.”

Harry ran past a confused Gellert who was scratching his bare stomach and to his room where the dead pheasants stared at him and he wondered what the people would do for the meth.

* * *

“Them pigs is breedin good,” Hagrid said, pointing at a mating pair of pigs. “Gonna have little oinkers in about half a year.”

“Yeah.”

Hagrid frowned. “Who stuck a sock in yer gun barrel?”

“What?”

“Somethin’s got ya actin’ like a buck doin' the bullet dance on Openin’ Day.”

“Oh. Yeah, I dunno. Minerva just . . . I don’t know, she told me something.”

“Is it about the message that was on Hermione’s house?”

Harry looked at him. “You knew about that?”

Hagrid sighed and nodded. “Yeah . . . saw it stumblin’ back from the gas station to get me a forty ouncer . . . can’t believe they’d write that on her house! In rabbit blood too!”

Harry’s heart stopped.

“How did you know it was rabbit blood?”

Hagrid’s eyes widened.

“Harry, you can’t — but o’ course it was rabbit’s blood! If it was anythin’ else it wouldn’t have run the way it did. And the color! Definitely rabbit’s blood, Harry . . . You have a lot of learnin’ to do round here . . .”

Harry narrowed his eyes. He was quite sure all blood was the same.

* * *

“He said it was rabbit’s blood?” Ron asked, shoveling pizza rolls onto his plate. He sucked the sauce from his fingers. “Wow.”

“Wow what?”

“Impressive he could tell. Last I knew only Old Man Flamel could tell . . . and we all thought he might be crazy . . . Hey, can you not tell my mom we ate the last of the pizza rolls? She says these are for when we have fancy company.”

“Yeah no problem . . .” Harry furrowed his brow. “Is Old Man Flamel still around?”

Ron’s brows disappeared into his hairline. “Is he . . . I mean he’s like a hundred years old. He’s bonkers, but he’s technically alive I guess.”

“Do you think he could tell me about the rabbit blood?”

Ron snorted. “Probably not, buddy. He can barely say his name these days. That’s what they say, anyway.” He shoveled several pizza rolls into his mouth. “Man, is this what you ate when you lived with your rich aunt and uncle?”

“No.”

“Must be a bit above their pay grade even,” Ron mumbled. “You seriously can’t tell my mom. She’ll kill me.”

Suddenly, Ginny walked through the room, a book in her arms. Ron hid the pizza rolls in his shirt, but she didn’t seem to notice them. But she didn’t notice him. Her eyes widened when she saw Harry and she ran away, dropping the book in the process.

Harry frowned and picked up the book. He flipped through it and saw that it barely made sense.

“Ron . . . do these look like words to you?”

Ron shrugged. “How should I know? I can’t read.”

* * *

“Hermione, do these look like words to you?”

Hermione frowned, flipping through the pages of the book. It seemed to be a leatherbound journal with the foot of a dead animal.

“I mean . . . it looks like there was an  _ attempt _ .” She sighed. “You’ll find out that people aren’t very literate around here. The problem is . . . this writing pattern could belong to anyone. You see, families stick together here and what they  _ do _ learn to write is very unique to the way they talk. It could take months to figure out who wrote this. Years maybe.”

Harry flipped through. “Do you think it could be this Voldemort?”

Hermioned frowned. “There’s no one named  _ Voldemort _ here . . . Not that that’s really even a real name . . .”

“Do you think we could figure out who wrote it though?”

She smirked. “Based on the lucky rabbit’s foot here, I bet we could.”

“Lucky what?”

“Lucky rabbit’s foot.” She pointed at the dangling bulge of fur that was tied to the journal. “They’re quite common, surprised you’ve never seen one.”

“Hermione!” Harry exclaimed. “Rabbit’s foot! Hagrid mentioned rabbits!”

Hermone frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Hagrid said that the blood on the side of your house belonged to a rabbit! Doesn’t that seem weird?”

“Hagrid? No . . . I mean . . . Hagrid’s always been able to identify animal blood. I . . . Really, it must be a coincidence.”

“It does seem weird though, doesn’t it?”

Hermione chewed on her lip.

“Yeah, Harry. It  _ does _ seem weird.”


	16. Alfred and Gellert's Disappearing Act

“HAGRID?” Minerva laughed. “Oh, dear boy, you must be joking! Hagrid would never — “

“But the rabbits! Doesn’t that seem . . . I don’t know, it seems weird!”

“Everyone has a lucky — watch out, Ethel — “ Ethel the chicken stepped out of the way, clucking about. “Lucky rabbit’s feet aren’t that weird. You’re looking too far into this.”

“Am I?” Harry asked, pointing out the chicken coop window. “Because Hagrid is right there with dead rabbits!”

Minerva gasped as Hagrid stepped up onto the farmhouse’s front porch, several dead rabbits over his shoulder.

Minerva headed towards the house, Harry in tow.

“Hagrid, what are you doing here?”

“Swung by to see Alfred.”

“Right . . .” Harry answered, quickly. “Where’d you get the rabbits, Hagrid?”

“Oh, these? Woods. Gotta feed Curmudgeon.”

“Who is Curmudgeon?”

“My gator.” Hagrid grinned. “He is a beaut, but he eats til the cows come home.”

Harry glanced at Minerva, who looked positively gobsmacked.

“Alfred and Gellert are . . .” She glanced at Harry. “They’re preoccupied. Whatever you came for, you’ll just have to do through me.”

Hagrid’s brows disappeared into his wild mane. “Ummm . . . well, I came bearing . . . gifts.”

“Gifts?” Minerva repeated. “Is it the kind of gift I’m afraid it is?”

Hagrid scratched the back of his head. “Well, er — “

“I told them not to be doing any business with those Riddles!” Minerva shouted. She pushed past Hagrid and marched inside. “ALFRED! GELLERT! GET YOUR TWEAKED OUT ASSES OUT HERE!”

Hagrid looked down at the ground.

“Maybe I ought to be going.”

Harry bit his lip. “Yeah. Maybe so.”

* * *

When Harry woke up the next day, Severus Snape was sitting on the sofa, a newspaper in his hands.

“Snape?”

“Amazingly spotted, Potter. Gold star for you.” He glared. “Are you ready for your moonshine lesson today?”

“I — I didn’t think we had one?”

“Well, it seems Alfred and Gellert have disappeared and Minerva’s gone to find them. So you’re stuck with me for the day.”

Harry stifled a groan.

“Yes, Potter, I’m not happy about it either. But I was about to turn the batch anyway, so it’s good timing.”

Harry followed Snape to his Toyota Carolla. They went to Snape’s house on Spinner’s End Road and went inside.

Harry hated that house.

“Why can’t we just do this at the farm?” Harry asked as they stepped inside.

“Because Alfred and Gellert will drink it all.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you know where they are right now?”

“No.”

“They’re getting high. On the Riddles’ supply.” Snape shook his head. “All the work I do keeping them away from the Riddles and for what? For them to run right back to them and buy more meth! And when I could just make it myself!”

Harry furrowed his brow. “Why  _ don’t _ you just make it for them? So they don’t go to the Riddles?”

“Because they shouldn’t be smokin’ it to begin with.” Snape shook his head. “Your mother . . . she hated meth.”

“She did?”

Snape nodded. “She made moonshine to get people not to smoke meth.”

“Alfred and Gellert smoke it every day.”

“Yes, and that’s why we can’t trust them. Methheads will do anything.”

“Anything?”

“Yes. Even give you up. Even give up the moonshine recipe.”

“That’s why you teach me to brew it and not them,” Harry deduced.

Snape nodded. “Your mother trusted me with it. Not them. That was for a reason.”

Harry gulped.

“Okay. So how do we turn the batch?”

So Snape taught him, and for the first time, he listened.


	17. Too Much Meth

“They did too much.”

Harry expected it when Minerva never returned to the farm, leaving him alone with Snape and Gilderoy Lockhart.

“They’re in the hospital,” Minerva explained, “to get their hallucinations figured out. No idea how long it’ll be.”

Snape sighed. “There’s only one type of meth that could do that.”

Minerva closed her eyes. “I know.”

“They’re not going to stop, Minerva.”

“I know.”

“Harry, why don’t you go to the Weasleys’ for the night?”

Harry nodded and hopped on the lawnmower to go to the Weasleys.

* * *

“Wow, they must’ve really done a lot.” Ron frowned.

“They did.” Harry sighed. “And that’s not all. I think Hagrid is the one writing the messages.”

“That means he’s working for Riddle.”

“Yeah.”

“Can you prove it?”

Harry shook his head. “No.”

“And what about the book?”

“You mean my sister’s book?”

“Yeah. It had the rabbit foot on it.”

“Everyone’s got a rabbit foot. That don’t mean anything.” Ron sighed. “What I’m most worried about is the last message.”

“The last message?”

“Yeah. They wrote something about taking someone into the meth lab. They wrote it on our tarp but Dad powerwashed it off.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “They said they — wait. I haven’t seen your sister.”

Ron shrugged. “She disappears a lot lately. Wouldn’t think anything of it?”

“But aren’t you worried? With the message?”

“Don’t see why I should be.”

“Ron. Your sister is missing. They’re putting messages on your tarp.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “Oh God! Ginny!”

“We have to find her.”


	18. Feedin' the Gator

“Hermione! We need your help!”

Hermione yawned. “Harry, it’s ten at night. My dad didn’t even want to let you in but he said you seemed freaked out.”

“Ron’s sister is gone and they took someone to the Secret Meth Lab. We have to find out where it is.”

“Oh my God!” Hermione bit her lip. “Do we have any idea where it is?”

“No idea.” Ron said.

“Well that’s not helpful.”

“We think Hagrid might know.” Harry said.

“As if he would show us if he did,” Hermione groaned. Then she tapped her chin. “But maybe we can follow him.”

“Follow him?”

Hermione nodded. “You have your daddy’s camo right?”

Harry gasped. “Hermione, you’re a genius!”

* * *

With Hermione in her camo, Harry in his, and Ron in an outfit Hermione stole from her dad’s closet, they edged upon Hagrid’s hut-like home at the edge of the forest. His boarhound barked, but when Hagrid quieted him, they peeked through the window.

Hagrid was inside drinking a beer, petting a small alligator that sat beside him on his sofa.

“The alligator! The one he’s feeding the rabbits to!” Harry hissed.

“I can’t believe he keeps that thing in the house,” Ron muttered. “I  _ hate _ gators.”

Before they could say anything else, Hagrid was putting a leash on the alligator.

“Stay!” he boomed at the boarhound.

The boarhound groaned and lay on the floor. Harry, Hermione, and Ron sidled the house as Hagrid stepped out. Whistling, he started wandering to his four-wheeler.

“We’ll never keep up with him,” Hermione hissed.

Ron raised his eyebrows. “Yeah we will.”

* * *

It was the second time Harry rode in Ron’s dad’s stolen pickup. Fortunately, there were only six roads in the entire town, so they were able to catch up with Hagrid at the single light. It seemed to get stuck for ten minutes at a time, which worked in their favor.

They followed Hagrid closely all the way to the hunting store.

“Isn’t it dangerous to have so much ammo and meth in one place?” Harry whispered.

Hermione shrugged. “Got your gun ready?”

Harry nodded.

Hagrid went inside and they all got out, ready to follow him.

But he wasn’t in there long. He came back out, some sort of animal call in his hand. That was when he furrowed his brow.

“Harry? Hermione? Ron? What’re you kids doing awake?”

“We could ask you the same thing!” Ron shouted.

“Well, I needed a rabbit call,” Hagrid said, holding up the small object. “Need to keep Curmudgeon fed.”

Hermione and Harry exchanged glances.

“Hagrid, if you’re working for Riddle, you’d tell us, right?” Harry asked.

Hermione elbowed him.

Hagrid sighed. “I know it looks bad. But really, you have to understand the only reason I do business with them is because Alfred makes me. I’m not workin’ for him. I’d never!”

“And how can we trust that?”

“Because Curmudgeon hates that snake of his!”

Harry and Hermione exchanged looks.

“Snake?”

Hagrid smacked his palm against his face.

“I shouldn’t have — I shouldn’t have said that.” He groaned. “But if you really want answers, you should follow the rabbits.”

“The rabbits?”

Hagrid nodded.

“Aye. The rabbits.”


	19. Lockhart Who?

Ron drove Harry and Hermione into the forest. As soon as he parked in a clearing, Hermione opened the window, and made a sound with her hands. Ron raised his eyebrows.

“You don’t need a call?”

“The cavemen didn’t need an animal call and neither do I.” She did again and lowered her voice to a whisper. “We should find them in no time like this.”

After three more tries, a rabbit showed up. Ron pointed at it.

“Shh,” Hermione hissed.

The rabbit met their eyes through the windshield and dashed in the other direction, so Ron stomped on the gas.

They were tossed around as they ran over logs and rocks and sticks and holes, but Ron never slowed down. He followed the rabbit until they reached a clearing in the woods — until they hit something.

Ron’s eyes widened and he stopped.

Harry hopped out of the truck with him, and they both exchanged looks of horror.

_ “Lockhart?” _ Harry asked, incredulously.

The man was rubbing his perfect hair. “Who?”

“You,” Harry said. “You — oh no.”

“What’s wrong?” Ron asked. “I barely hit him — “

“Where am I?  _ Who _ am I?”

Harry sighed. “He hurt his head. We have to take him to the hospital.”

“We don’t have time,” Ron said. “Besides, my mom will kill me if she finds out I stole the truck again.”

“Don’t you think she knows by now? Since it’s gone and all?”

Ron paled. “I never thought of that.”

“ _ So _ we take him to the hospital.”

“But Ginny — “

Harry rubbed his forehead. Ron was right.

“Okay, get in the truck, Lockhart.”

“When you say Lockhart, do you mean me?” Lockhart asked.

“Yes, I mean you! Get in the truck!”

He did as he was told, and Ron and Harry squeezed inside with him. Hermione looked as though her eyes were going to pop out of her head.

“You hit Gilderoy Lockhart?” she hissed at Ron as he stepped on the gas.

“I didn’t mean to! What was he doing on the ground in the dark anyway?!”

“A genius hunting method,  _ obviously _ ,” Hermione growled.

“No, actually,” Lockhart interrupted. “I was hiding from . . . well, actually I can’t remember what from but — “

Suddenly, they pulled upon a clearing where there was a trailer with all the lights on.

“Oh yes, now I remember. A man came out of that trailer there with a gun. A big one! Much bigger than mine . . .”

Ron and Hermione exchanged nervous glances.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Ron whispered.

Hermione gulped and nodded.

“It’s what?” Harry asked. “It’s the Secret Meth Lab?”

“Yes, Harry. It’s the Secret Meth Lab.”

Harry gulped.

“Meth Lab!” Lockhart exclaimed. “Wait — what is a meth lab?”

“Shh!” Ron and Hermione hissed together.

Harry took a deep breath. “You two should stay here with him.”

“Harry, we can’t — “

“He might try to take the truck,” Harry reasoned. “It’ll take both of you to fight him off if he tries.”

Hermione and Ron looked unsure, but nodded nonetheless.

“I’ll be back once I’m done with Riddle.”


	20. The Secret Meth Lab

Harry quietly pushed open the trailer door. He did not have much of a plan, but he had his Red Rider. To his surprise the first person he saw was Ginny.

She was surrounded by what appeared to be cold medicine and she looked scared.

“I see you’ve come for the girl. Took you long enough.”

Harry gasped when he saw a young man in a camouflage suit. His hair was well groomed, and unlike most people around town, he smelled rather nice.

“Riddle Jr.” Harry whispered.

“Very good,” he muttered. “I was beginning to think you were stupid with the way you strolled in here with just a Red Rider.”

Harry gulped and Tom laughed.

“All I had to do was leave my book of instructions in the Weasleys’ mailbox. I thought one of the older boys would get it. That was my hope anyway. I always wanted to work with the smart one.” He sniffed. “But leave it to trailer trash like the Weasleys to send their six-year-old after the mail. Turned out it worked better because Walmart is more likely to sell cough medicine to a sick kid.”

“Book of instructions . . .?” Harry’s eyes widened with realization. “Voldemort. Your first name is Voldemort.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Your first name is Voldemort! It was in your instruction book!”

“My first name is Tom, just like my daddy. You really ought to learn how to read.” He crossed his arms. “Speaking of my daddy, he’s doing better . . . no thanks to you.”

“Your dad is evil. He killed my parents.”

“My dad killed them and I’m going to kill you. How convenient.”

“You wouldn’t — “

“Oh I would. After you give me the recipe.”

Harry aimed his gun at him but Tom reached into his pocket and pulled out a Desert Eagle.

“Don’t even try it.”

Harry gulped.

“I — I don’t know the recipe, Tom.”

“You do! Snape’s taught it to you! Ginny told me!”

“But Ginny couldn’t possibly — “ Harry groaned. “Ron.”

Ron must have told her.

Before Harry could say anything else, the door opened and a woman with wild curly hair dropped off several dead rabbits. A cigarette hung between her lips.

“You got this one, boss?”

“Yes, Bella. This is all mine.”

She cackled and left once again.

“What are the dead rabbits for?”

Riddle smirked.

“Basilisk!”

A giant snake came slithering out from one of the other rooms. It hissed and Harry nearly screamed. Its fangs were massive.

“What kind of snake is that?”

“The poisonous kind.”

“Venomous,” Harry corrected.

“What?”

“Poisonous means touching or eating it will hurt you. Venomous means it has something like fangs that will hurt you.”

“Whatever!” Riddle shouted. “Feast, Basilisk!”

Basilisk went in for the rabbits and Riddle grinned, holding the Desert Eagle at Harry’s throat.

“Tell me the recipe, Potter. You have to tell me.”

“I won’t!” Harry choked out.

“You will!”

Riddle clicked off the safety button and Harry gulped.

Then he heard something clatter to the floor.

One of the snake’s giant fangs had fallen out of its mouth. Riddle furrowed his brow, but Harry was too fast, he reached for the fang, wrapped his hand around it, and stabbed Riddle right in the chest.

Riddle clutched his heart as it oozed blood, screaming and clawing at Harry. He dropped his gun and Harry stole it.

“Come on, Ginny! We have to go!”

Ginny didn’t have to be told twice. They ran all the way back to the truck, jumped in the bed, and Ron stomped on the brakes.


	21. Mr. Weasley's Whitey Tighties

“The Secret Meth Lab blew up,” Minerva said, “with Riddle Jr. inside.”

Gellert fixed his frilly pink apron and wheeled around to face her.

“Really? Wonder how that happened?”

Harry felt Minerva’s eyes on him.

“Who knows?” she said, coolly. “Seems like a cook go wrong.”

“That’s a lot of waste,” Gellert mumbled. “Too bad he couldn’t be more careful.”

“Yes, well, it’s better that that place is gone. Anyone that smoked that was going to be in a world of trouble.”

“You’re right, Minerva,” Alfred said. “It was only going to cause problems.”

“On that note, you’ll be headed back to the Dursleys tomorrow, Harry. They aren’t sure they want you to be somewhere with such a massive meth problem.”

“What!” Harry shouted. “The suburbs are no better! The heroin epidemic has been plaguing middle-class teenagers and adolescents for the past decade!”

“Yes, well, your aunt and uncle called. They are demanding we take you home. We aren’t your legal guardians so we have no choice.”

Harry groaned.

“It’s best you say goodbye to your friends today.”

* * *

“Well doggonit, Harry, I was just getting used to you being around again,” Ron said. “My dad’s so used to you he’s wearin’ his tightey whiteys in the living room!”

Harry grimaced as Mr. Weasley scratched himself.

“Wait. Your dad can read?”

Always, Mr. Weasley had a newspaper, but Harry hadn’t thought much of it until the whole instruction book fiasco.

“Nope. Just like the pictures,” Mr. Weasley said. “This cat’s always eatin’ lasagna. At least I think it’s meant to be lasagna.”

“It is lasagna,” Percy said, boredly. “Good God. Will anyone in this family ever educate themselves?”

Fred (or George, Harry wasn’t sure) picked something out of his teeth and flicked it at Percy’s forehead.

“Only when you stop being a massive dork.”

Harry sighed. He would miss the Weasleys.

* * *

Talking to Hermione was even harder.

“You’re leaving again.”

“How’d you know?”

“You have that look on your face.”

Harry coughed. “Yeah, well. I’m not happy about it.”

“I know. I’ll see you again someday?”

“I hope so.” He scratched the back of his neck. “My aunt and uncle . . . They — they don’t want me coming back here, I don’t think . . . because of the meth lab . . .”

“Well, only six years til we’re eighteen, right?” Hermione cracked a smile. “Then they can’t tell you what to do.”

Harry smiled back.

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”


	22. Aunt Marge's Very Loud and Smelly Accident

**Year Three**

The Dursleys had somehow become more dull than they were before. All summer, they hosted boring pot roasts and talked about the neighborhood watch while Harry dreamed of the hog farm.

Then, there was the thing he dreaded most.

Aunt Marge’s visit.

“She’ll be here in just under an hour!” Uncle Vernon announced. “And she’s bringing Ripper. He is a beautiful dog, that Ripper. Bred from the best of them . . . champion bloodlines, you know.”

“Champion of what?” Dudley had asked.

“Of dog shows!”

“But he can’t breathe on his own.”

“A sign of a fine bulldog!”

Dudley didn’t look so sure, but continued mashing the buttons on his PlayStation controller nonetheless.

“I’ve got the ham in the oven, the potatoes boiling, and a piping hot pie cooling on the counter.” Aunt Petunia clasped her hands together. “Oh, it’s been ages since we’ve seen her. Her favorite is still pecan, right?”

“Always has been, always will be. Marge is a mighty fine American woman. Our parents raised us right.” He glanced at Harry. “Like we’ve _tried_ to raise this one right.”

“I’ve been raised right! Alfred and Minerva and Gellert do a great job.”

Uncle Vernon let out a mirthless laugh. “A great job? A meth lab blew up not a mile from where you were living!”

“So? I’m sure lots of people here do meth. They just don’t talk about it.”

“How dare you!” Vernon exclaimed. “They do no such thing!”

“Whatever,” Harry grumbled. “I’m going to my room.”

“And when Marge gets here, what will you do?”

“Offer her an appetizer and — “

“Ah! Ah! Ah! An appetizer or — “

Harry groaned. _“Dessert.”_

“Rightio!” Uncle Vernon turned to Dudley. “Dudley! Did you get your dirty socks off the stairs yet!”

“I’m in the middle of a game!” Dudley shouted. “I’ve just about killed the pimp!”

Aunt Petunia furrowed her brow and rushed to her only son. “ _What_ kind of game are you playing?”

Uncle Vernon glared at Harry. “Go pick up Dudley’s socks and change into some khakis.” He gestured Harry’s camouflage shirt. “ _This_ type of dress will not be tolerated in my home.”

“Then I need you to frost the brownies!” Aunt Petunia added. She mumbled something about violent video games and turned the television off. “Dudders, why don’t you go get your octopus game? That’s much more appropriate.”

“But it’s for babies!”

“Go!”

Dudley pushed past Harry, mumbling about “stupid fucking octopus.” With a sigh, Harry went to collect Dudley’s socks. That was when he found something brown smeared all over them.

“Oh, yuck!” Harry yelled. “DUDLEY! YOU WENT OUTSIDE WITHOUT SHOES ON AGAIN!”

“DON’T SHOUT!” Uncle Vernon shouted.

“But I’ve got dog shit on my hands!”

“Language!” Aunt Petunia exclaimed. Upon seeing Harry’s hands, she grimaced. “Go wash up. A shower! Leave it to you to pick up socks without making sure there’s no dog poop on them!”

“But it was — “

“GO!”

Muttering to himself, Harry dropped the filthy socks in the washing machine and went straight to the shower. It was as he was soaping himself up and he watched the filth go down the drain that he had an idea.

A devious idea.

* * *

“Oho! Marge is here!” Uncle Vernon exclaimed excitedly. “Is everyone ready?”

“Dinner is all ready!” Aunt Petunia exclaimed.

“I’ve put my PlayStation away,” Dudley muttered.

“And have you frosted the brownies?” Aunt Petunia asked.

Harry hurried into the foyer and tucked a box into the back pocket of his khaki pants.

“Yes, Aunt Petunia!”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Good.”

Harry heard her terrible bulldog grunting and barking all the way up the walkway. She rung the doorbell and they let her inside. Immediately, she snorted and handed the dog’s leash to Harry.”

“Get him some water, boy.”

Harry nodded. “Yes, Aunt Marge.”

Aunt Marge shook her head. “I’m not your aunt, you miserable boy. I’m your uncle’s sister!”

“Sorry, Marge.”

“It’s Ms. Dursley to you!”

“Okay, Ms. Dursley.”

Harry took the dog to the kitchen. It grunted the whole way as he fumbled with its bowl of water. Meanwhile, Marge hung her jacket and followed the Dursleys into the kitchen.

“Got stuck behind this rickety pickup! Were all over the road! Probably losers like this one’s parents.”

Harry drew his brows together, but said nothing. Instead, he fetched the brownies and offered them to her.

“Brownie?”

“Who made them?” she spat.

“I did!” Aunt Petunia said. “The — the boy frosted them. But I made them.”

“Fine,” Marge said, taking a large brownie and forcing it into her mouth. She sat down at the kitchen table and scratched the drinking dog behind the ears. “Such a good boy. Ripper left a rather firm bowel movement in your front yard. Hope you don’t mind.”

“No, of course not,” Uncle Vernon said. “I love Ripper!”

Aunt Petunia looked less than thrilled.

“This brownie is scrumptious, Petunia. The boy did skimp on the frosting, though.”

Harry glared at her. “Next time I’ll make sure to give you extra.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Go get me another. And smear some frosting from my brother’s onto it! He’s a bit big in the gut, doesn’t need the extra calories.”

She patted Vernon’s stomach and he let out an awkward chuckle.

Harry went to do as he was told. He made sure to smear extra frosting onto the brownie and handed it to her.

“Slightly useful.” Marge shoved the brownie into her hands. “Shocking, considering his methhead parents.”

“My parents _weren’t_ methheads.”

“Excuse me, boy?”

“My parents _weren’t_ methheads. They brewed moonshine and the entire town loved them and they accomplished much more than _you_ ever will.”

“Now, let me tell you something — “

But before she could, her eyes bulged. She looked at Vernon and Petunia, her face pouring sweat.

“I — excuse me, it seems I have to — “

But she didn’t finish. Suddenly, a loud noise came from her bottom and the smell was terrible.

Except it didn’t go away.

“Vernon. Vernon, do something!”

“I — I — Marge, did you — “

“I need a change of pants, Vernon! Now!”

But another sound came from her bottom. Dudley plugged his nose.

“GROSS!”

Aunt Petunia awkwardly sprayed a bit of Febreze, but Vernon wasn’t about to let Harry get away with it.

“ _You_ ,” he accused, pointing a finger at him. “ _You_ did this.”

Harry’s eyes widened to the size of saucers.

“No!” Harry ran as fast as he could upstairs and collected his already packed bag, he heard Uncle Vernon follow him.

“I’M GOING TO KILL YOU, BOY!”

But Harry had his Red Rider, and he came out of his room, pointing it right at Vernon’s gut.

“You’re going to what?”

Uncle Vernon put his hands up in surrender.

“But — but — you can’t — “

“I can’t what? I guarantee you it’s loaded.”

Uncle Vernon wiped the sweat from his brow.

_“Move.”_

And because Uncle Vernon didn’t have a choice, he did.


	23. Stan Shunpike

Harry didn’t know where to go, so he simply waited by the bus stop. Hours passed, and then a semi truck pulled over.

“You Harry Potter?”

Harry furrowed his brow.

“How did you know?”

“Your uncle called Alfred. He had Hagrid CB me and here I am.” He raised his eyebrows. “You gettin’ in or what?”

Harry grinned. “Yeah!”

He got into the truck and sighed.

“Thanks for picking me up.”

“No problem. Headin’ up that way anyway. Alfred said to leave you at the hog farm.”

“Awesome.” He furrowed his brow. “Er — sorry, what was your name?”

“Oh! Sorry! Stan Shunpike.” He reached out to shake Harry’s hand. “Good thing you ran into me and not that godfather of yours. Rumor has it he’s been lookin’ for ya.”

“My godfather?”

“Sirius? Sirius Black?” Stan cocked an eyebrow. “Alfred never told ya, did he?”

Harry shook his head. “I had no idea I had a godfather.”

Stan sighed. “Probably for the best . . . He sold your parents out to Riddle. Told them where he’d be hunting that day. Invited them to go and your parents were too nice to say no . . .”

“Why would he do such a thing?”

“For meth of course . . . he was in prison on DUI and drug charges. Broke out. He was sellin’ the stuff for Riddle.” Stan chewed on his lip. “I smoke a little bit of the stuff here and there, but I make sure to get it from Old Sluggy. Won’t buy from Riddle.”

“Old Sluggy?”

“Used to teach kids how to make meth back in the day . . . Howie nearly caught him and he’s retired from it ever since. But he still makes small batches.”

Harry gulped. “I can’t believe nobody told me this before.”

“Well, it’s for the best that you know. They say he might come after you.”

“What? Really?”

Stan nodded. “Be careful, kid. Black is dangerous. Real dangerous.”

* * *

Harry had one question for Alfred when he walked inside.

“Why didn’t you tell me I have a godfather?”

Alfred sighed. “Stan told you.”

“Yes Stan told me!”

“Well he shouldn’t’ve,” Alfred grumbled. “You weren’t supposed to know.”

“ _ That’s _ your solution? To never tell me? He’s the reason my parents are dead!”

“Harry, you don’t know what you’re — “

The door flung open and Harry felt arms circle around his neck.

“HARRY!”

“Hey, Hermione,” he said, blushing.

“You’re back,” she brerathed. “I thought — I didn’t know if you’d — how on earth did you get here?”

“I kind of poisoned my aunt and got a ride over with Stan Shunpike.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

_ “You didn’t!” _

“It was just Exlax.”

Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth.  _ “Harry!” _

He shrugged. “It was no big deal. Want to go shooting?”

She grinned.

“Obviously.”


	24. Moony and the Coon Skull

“You’re in luck,” Gellert said, plopping onto the sofa beside Harry. “Remus Lupin has agreed to teach you taxidermy.”

Harry cocked an eyebrow. “Who is Remus Lupin?”

Gellert gasped. “Only the best taxidermist in the whole town!” He gestured the taxidermy on the wall. “He’s done all of this!”

“Even the squirrel with the beer?”

“That’s his best work!” Gellert exclaimed. “You’ll be making squirrels with beers in no time.”

* * *

Harry was not so sure about Remus Lupin’s house. It was a shack by the Big Willow — the same tree most of the town drunks had wrapped their cars around. The windows were broken in and the door was falling off the hinges.

“Go on,” Hagrid urged him. “I’ve gotta go take care of Forkfeet.”

“Forkfeet?” Harry asked, frowning.

“The hog!” Hagrid exclaimed. “The big one! Ya had to’ve seen ‘im when you came to the farm!”

“You mean the new one?”

Hagrid nodded. “Yep. That’s Forkfeet. He’s a big boy. Anyway, best be off. Have fun with Lupin.”

Hagrid raced away on his four-wheeler before Harry could protest. He chewed on his lip and knocked on the door.

After a moment, a lanky man with a scar across his face opened it.

“You must be Harry.”

Harry nodded. “You must be Lupin.”

“Lupin. Moony. Whatever you want to call me.”

“Moony?”

“Your dad used to call me that,” Lupin said, waving him inside. “Come in, come in.”

“Why Moony?”

“Because I mooned Mr. Kettleburn in sixth grade.”

This admission barely registered with Harry. He was far too enveloped in looking around the small house. Everywhere, there were strange bits of taxidermy. From raccoons riding goats to deer smoking Marlboro cigarettes, Lupin had put animals in just about every bizarre position he could.

“Awesome, innit?”

“It’s different,” Harry said, looking around. His eyes ended up on a picture of Lupin with a long-haired man. “Who is that?”

“Someone very special.” Lupin sighed. “At least he used to be.”

“Did he die?”

“No. He sold your parents out.”

Harry gasped. “That’s —  _ that’s _ Sirius Black?”

“That’s the Sirius Black I remember. The Sirius Black you’ve heard about isn’t the same man.” Lupin shook his head. “The drugs got to him in the end. He hid it well. Had no idea he was doing it . . . Oh well, all good things must come to an end, eh?”

“I — I suppose so.  _ Ahem _ . So we should probably get doing some taxidermy, huh?”

“What? Oh! Yes, right, right. Taxidermy . . . Let’s start with something easy.”

“Is  _ any _ of it easy?”

“Yep. I hit this coon with my car the other day.” Lupin gestured a bucket in the corner of the room that, lo and behold, had a raccoon in it. It was bloody and flies darted to and fro around it. “Let me show ya how to clean a coon skull.”

* * *

Harry found he was very proud of the finished coon skull. Even better, Lupin sent him home with it and let him take a chocolate bar too. He found he liked Lupin much more than Snape — even if Lupin used to date a man that had his parents killed.

He didn’t like that his picture was still up, though.

“You okay, Harry?” Ron asked over dinner. He had come to join them for muskrat lasagna. “You haven’t been talkin’.”

“I’m fine.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re here early this year. You can sign up for the lawnmower derby.”

“Really?” Harry asked, excitedly. “It’s not canceled this year?”

“Riddle Jr.’s dead. No reason to cancel it.” Mr. Weasley grinned. “So you gonna join, Harry? The hog farm could use ya.”

“Yeah! The hog farm could use ya!” the twins said together.

“Wait, aren’t you two joining?”

“We’re beaters,” Fred (or was it George?) explained. “We’ll wreck anyone in your way so you can win.”

“Why?”

“Because of Malfoy,” Ron grumbled.

“Draco Malfoy?” Harry asked.

“Yeah. It’s The Hog Farm versus The Gun Collectors when it comes down to it . . . It’s not even just him, though. Cho Chang has been gettin’ better too.”

“Has she? A couple years ago she was — “

“She’s better now,” George (or Fred?) said, firmly. “You’ll need us.”

Suddenly, Sirius Black was in the very back of Harry’s mind.


	25. Forkfeet the Hog

“Forkfeet! C’mere!”

Harry and Hermione waited as Hagrid called the newest addition to the hog farm: the giant hog called Forkfeet. Forkfeet excitedly scrambled towards them, slipping through the mud and shit until he reached them. He oinked happily as Hagrid patted his head and gave him a treat.

“Now, Harry, give him a pat. But show him respect! He’ll know if you don’t respect him!”

Harry bit his lip and reached out to pet the pig. Then, before he could finish, they were interrupted by a vehicle pulling in and someone slamming the door. Harry turned around to see a Suburban and a familiar blond boy storming towards him.

“I’m here to meet the pig.”

“Well, Draco, you’ll have to wait. It’s Harry’s turn.”

“Of course it is,” Draco scoffed, crossing his arms. “Go on, then. Finish up so I can come see what all the fuss is about.”

Harry happily pet the pig and exchanged a grin with Hermione. The pig oinked with glee.

“Good boy,” Hagrid said. “Okay, now Draco, come  _ slowly _ . . .”

Draco did not approach slowly. Instead, he stormed towards the pig angrily. With a squeal, Forkfeet charged at him and bit his hand.

“AH! MY HAND, MY HAND! IT’S KILLED ME!”

“Oh, he hasn’t killed ya!” Hagrid shouted. “Don’t be so dramatic!”

“Hagrid, you have to get him to the hospital!” Hermione shouted.

Hagrid did not seem so sure, but picked Draco up and took him to the house, anyway. Harry and Hermione followed in tow.

Draco’s father, Lucius Malfoy, was talking to Alfred about a gun he wanted to buy. Alfred, in the yard in nothing but his tightey whities and the very gun Lucius wanted, did not seem convinced.

“Ah! Harry! Hermione! Hagrid!” Suddenly, his face fell. “What’s wrong?”

Draco was groaning and Lucius quickly turned his attention to Hagrid.

“What happened to him?” he demanded, pulling his son towards him. “What did you do, you giant idiot?”

“I — I — “

“Hagrid didn’t do anything!” Hermione cut in. “Draco scared Forkfeet. It was  _ his _ fault.”

“ _ Forkfeet _ ?” Lucius asked, cocking a brow. “You mean that terrible pig?”

“Yes, Daddy! It bit me!”

Lucius narrowed his eyes and pointed his walking stick at Alfred.

“This won’t be the last you hear from me,” he said. He quickly turned to Hagrid. “And I’ll be seeing you in the back of Howie’s car. Come, Draco. We have better places to be than this  _ shithole _ .”

* * *

“All signed up, Harry?”

“Yes,” Harry said, handing the lawnmower derby form back to Minerva. “Do you think Hagrid will be in trouble?”

Minerva took a deep breath. “Don’t you worry about that.”

“Like I shouldn’t worry about Sirius Black?”

Her face paled. “Harry, we will keep you safe.”

“I just don’t understand why the derby was canceled last year because of Riddle Jr. but this year, Sirius Black is after me, and everything is fine.”

“The board got involved this year.”

“Who’s on the board?”

“Lucius Malfoy.”

Harry groaned. “Of course.”

“Aren’t you happy you get to compete?”

“Well, yeah, but I mean — he could kill me!”

“He won’t at the lawnmower derby. Too many people.” Minerva sighed. “We’re here to watch out for you, Potter. Now get some sleep, okay?”

She turned off the light and closed his door, leaving him with his thoughts. 

But he did not get any sleep that night.


	26. Jack Daniels, Coyotes, and Psychics

“I heard about the Malfoy boy,” Lupin muttered, putting hot glue on a sombrero.

“He’s a liar,” Harry said, quickly. “He didn’t get hurt. Forkfeet barely bit him!”

“Yes, well, the Malfoys  _ are _ liars,” Lupin said, coolly. “Can you hand me that empty bottle of Jack Daniels?”

Harry passed the bottle to him and Lupin set the sombrero down. He started filling the bottle with a substance Harry didn’t recognize.

“What’s that?”

“Resin. Dyed with food colouring.” His tongue poked past his lips. “Once I get the sombrero on the coyote, I’m going to get the Jack Daniels glued to make it look like the deer is drinking it.”

Harry nodded. He might have laughed if there wasn’t so much on his mind.

“Do you think Sirius Black will find me?”

Lupin stopped.

“What?”

“I asked if you think Sirius Black will find me?”

“No, Harry. I don’t think Sirius Black will find you . . .” He closed his eyes. “But I do think you ought to be careful.”

“Careful how?”

“Just watch where you go. Stick with adults. And mostly,” he added, sticking the sombrero onto the coyote’s head, “don’t make any mistakes with the people you love.”

“What do you mean?”

Lupin gave him a sad smile. “We have the power to keep our loved ones on the right path. If I’d paid more attention with Sirius, maybe he’d still be sitting where you are right now.”

* * *

“Harry, you awake?”

Harry turned over to look at Ron. They had been up late playing the Cabela’s hunting game. Since it was after dark, Mr. Weasley told Harry just to stay the night. He claimed Minerva sounded relieved over the phone, which meant that Gellert and Alfred were probably being a handful.

“Yeah, why?”

Ron bit his lip. “You know Sybill Trelawney?”

“Who’s that?”

“You really don’t know anything,” Ron groaned. “She’s this old lady that lives at Pine Hollow. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil hang around there a lot.”

“Okay . . . What about her?”

“Well . . . she wanted to see you.” 

“Really?” Harry asked. “Why me?”

“Dunno really . . . Lavender just told me she said something about seeing your future . . .” Ron trailed off. “But that’s stupid, obviously.”

“Yeah . . . obviously . . .” Harry stared at the ceiling for a moment. “Did she say what she saw?”

Ron shook his head.

“No.”

“Did she say if it was good or bad?”

“No.”

Harry nodded. He wanted not to care, because it  _ was _ stupid after all. Nobody could see the future.

But he couldn’t let it go.

“Say I wanted to know what she saw . . . When should I go see her?”

“Tomorrow. Not before one, though. She likes to sleep in.”

“Alright. Tomorrow then.”

“And not between four and six because she takes a nap.”

“Okay — “

“And not between six and seven because usually she has to do a run to the gas station to get some snacks.”

“Okay!” Harry said, exasperated. “We’ll go tomorrow.”


	27. Pine Hollow Trailer Park

Harry had never been to Pine Hollow, but he discovered it was a trailer park near the only fast food joint in town, a McDonald’s that was drive-thru only.

They slowly chugged along on the lawnmower until they reached a trailer with yellow siding and dozens of strange decorations on the outside. From reflective orbs to jingling windchimes and dream catchers, the trailer looked like a self-assessed psychic lived there.

Ron walked up the creaking steps and knocked on the door.

“Might take her a few minutes,” Ron said. “She uh — well, she usually has to turn on a fan and . . . Well, you’ll see why.”

After several minutes, the door opened to reveal a woman with wild crimped hair, several scarves, and a long, paisley dress with a tattered shawl. Her glasses were large and round, and she reeked of what smelled like a skunk.

“Oh! What a surprise!” she exclaimed. “Come on in, boys, come in . . . try not to breathe in the air, okay?”

Harry plugged his nose and stepped into the trailer. If the outside of the trailer had bizarre decorations, the inside belonged in a oddities museum. There were gargoyles and statues of magical creatures everywhere, and strangely, there wasn’t a television in sight.

“Who’s your friend, Ron?” she asked, lighting some incense.

“I’m Harry,” Harry cut in. “Harry Potter.”

She whipped around.

“Are you really?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Lavender Brown said you wanted to tell me something . . . Something about my future?”

She inhaled and hurried over to him.

“Mr. Potter . . . I’m afraid you’re in grave danger.”

“Grave danger,” Harry repeated.

“Yes, Mr. Potter . . .” She gasped and quickly hid what looked like a small vase. “Grave danger.”

* * *

Harry was pushing food around on his plate. He wasn’t sure how to tell Minerva and Alfred what he had been told that day.

“What’s the matter, boy?” Minerva asked. “You’ve barely eaten!”

“It’s just . . . well, Ms. Trelawney told me today that I’m in grave danger.”

Alfred choked on his baked potato but Minerva scoffed. 

“That’s ridiculous! She tells everyone that.”

Harry glanced at Alfred.

“Is it really, Alfred? Is it actually ridiculous?”

He sighed.

“Yes, my boy. Completely ridiculous.”


	28. The Hog Farm vs The Gun Collectors

“The derby this year will be on teams!” Madam Hooch explained, marching along the field. “The Hog Farm!”

Several beeps, shouts, and boos came from all side of the field.

“And the Gun Collectors!”

More beeps, shouts, and boos.

“On the flag. Three, two, one, GO!”

The green flag waved and everyone darted into the middle. Immediately, Fred and George bolted different directions on their older lawnmowers, straight into Cho Chang and Vincent Crabbe. Crabbe drove into a wall, leaving his lawnmower smoking, while George (or Fred?) drove off with a smirk.

“CRABBE FROM THE GUN COLLECTORS IS OUT!”

Fred (or George?), however, was not so lucky.

Cho Chang came for Harry at top-speed — and so did Draco Malfoy.

Eyes wide, Harry circled around so they hit each other, but they each braked enough not to smash their front ends.

“OOOH! NICE SAVE FROM MALFOY AND CHANG!”

“GO, DRACO, GO!” screamed a pug-nose girl from the stands. In her hands was a cardboard sign that said “I love Draco Malfoy.”

Harry could’ve gagged.

“OH! AND SPINNET IS OUT!”

“STUPID SPINNET!” the pug-nose girl shrieked. “GO, DRACO, GO!”

“COME ON, HARRY!” Wood shouted. “Get out of there!”

Harry suddenly realized that while he was distracted by the girl, several of the Gun Collectors had surrounded him. With a gasp, he his the gas as hard as he could, sending all four of them crashing into each other.

“OH! A FOUR-WAY CRASH! IS ANYONE ABLE TO GET OUT OF THERE?”

They all revved and revved and Harry heard Malfoy cursing from his lawnmower. After a few seconds, the engines sputtered out.

“THAT’S CHANG, GOYLE, FLINT, AND ZABINI! ALL OUT! THAT LEAVES THE GUN COLLECTORS WITH JUST MALFOY!”

Harry met Malfoy’s eyes. They were full of fire.

So Harry revved his engine and he went straight for him. That was when Fred and George came in on both sides and went after him too.

CRASH!

The three of them had pinned him to the wall, crumpling the entire front end. They kept pushing and pushing until — 

“BACK IT OFF, BACK IT OFF!”

Harry and the twins did as they were told and Hooch made a point to glare at them as she came through.

Malfoy revved.

And he revved.

And nothing happened.

Harry grinned and turned his lawnmower the other way to face Hermione, but then he heard a sound.

The engine had come back to life.

Harry tried to turn around, but before he could, he felt the full force of Malfoy’s mower ream into the back of him, knocking him to the ground. His lawnmower kept going without him — straight into the wall.

His vision blurred from his lost glasses, all he saw was the frame of a blond man standing and an explosion.

_ His lawnmower. _


	29. Howie and Fudge

“He SHOT his mower!” Hagrid boomed. “And yer tellin’ me you ain’t gonna do nothin’?”

Harry blinked awake. He was surrounded by familiar faces, but it was hard to focus on them with all the flashing red and blue lights.

“What happened?”

“Lucius Malfoy shot your lawnmower,” Hermione whispered. “Hagrid’s talking to Howie right now.”

“Well,  _ my people  _ didn’t see it,” Harry heard a voice say. It was a small man with a mustache in what appeared to be a police uniform.

“And your people all got guns from the Malfoys’ store in their gun cabinets!” Hagrid shouted.

“Now, now, Hagrid,” Alfred cut in. “My good friend Howard wouldn’t lie to benefit the Malfoys. Would you, Howie?”

Harry could see the man called Howie was sweating bullets.

No pun intended.

“Of course not,” he mumbled. “Look. I uh — I’ll be around tomorrow, Alfred. There was a report about a pig and it’s been on my list for a few days, but you see, one of my officers tased Old Man Ollivander on accident and it’s been a bit of a nightmare with the Daily Prophet . . .”

“Forkfeet?” Harry asked, angrily, scrambling up.

“Harry! Harry, dear, lay back down. You might have a concussion —” Molly Weasley fussed.

But Harry didn’t listen.

“Forkfeet didn’t do anything!” Harry went on. “Draco, he —”

“That’s quite enough, Harry,” Alfred intervened. “When Howard visits tomorrow, we will determine what needs to be done with Forkfeet.”

And so nothing happened to Lucius Malfoy, and Harry had to ride home in the pickup, wondering just what would happen to his friend.

* * *

The next day, Howie pulled in and a fancy sports car pulled in behind him. Harry furrowed his brow from the window.

“Howie’s got someone with him,” Harry said. “He’s driving a really nice car.”

Hagrid groaned.

“That’ll be Fudge,” he said. “Only person in town with a nice car.”

“Who’s Fudge?”

“The mayor,” Alfred interrupted. “I wish I was surprised to see him, but I’m not. The Daily Prophet has made quite a fuss about our friend, Forkfeet. The Malfoys have a whole lot of money.”

There was a knock at the door. Harry saw it was an elderly man in a Hawaiian shirt and khakis. Howie was beside him.

Alfred opened the door.

“Welcome, welcome. Cornelius. Howard.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Cornelius Fudge slurred. “We’ll keep this quick since I’m actually in between rum punches at the bar. It’s Tiki Tuesday, you know!”

“It’s Monday, Cornelius.”

“Ah! Right! Well, I guess I’ll be doing it all over again tomorrow then, eh?” He winked. “Maui Monday. We’ll call it that!”

Howie chuckled. “Nice one, Mayor.”

Harry cocked an eyebrow.

“So the pig,” Howie said, anxiously, “he . . . Hagrid, you may want to sit down . . .”

“The pig’s gotta die!” Cornelius cut in. “Make porkchops of it. Or bacon. Oh, I do love bacon . . . Rosmerta makes the  _ best _ Bloodhy Marys with bacon and pickles and cheese . . . What were we talking about again?”

“The pig,” Howie grumbled. He patted Hagrid’s shoulder. “Someone from Animal Control will be in to put it down on Thursday.”

“Thursday!” Hagrid shouted. “But he — but he can’t even say goodbye! That’s! That’s not enough time!”

“Yeah, well, it’s the only time Animal Control could get here,” Fudge said boredly. “But they did say you can keep the meat.”

“I can keep the — this is an outrage!”

Fudge shrugged.

“This is what was decided. Anyway, I need to get back to the bar. Follow behind me, Howie?”

Howie nodded and gave Hagrid a sad smile.

“Sorry, buddy.”

But Harry wasn’t so sure he was.


	30. The Hobo Hovel

“So they decided to kill the pig,” Lupin said, shaking his head. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“But he didn’t even do anything!” Harry shouted. “Draco’s dad blew up my lawnmower and they’re trying to kill the pig and they won’t do anything about Draco’s dad!”

“Yes, well, the Malfoys have a lot of money. Hand me that fork.”

Harry handed Lupin a fork. With his tongue poking out his mouth, Lupin glued the fork into a muskrat’s hand.

“He’s eating dinner. How about that?”

Harry sighed.

“Lupin, I saw this lady in the trailer park. And she told me . . .” He cleared his throat. “He told me I’m in grave danger.”

Lupin cleared his throat.

“Alright. And why did she think so?”

Harry shrugged.

“I don’t know. She’s some kind of psychic or something.”

Lupin nodded.

“I see.”

“It’s all bullshit though, right?” Harry asked. “I don’t need to be worried?”

Lupin took a deep breath.

“I think you need to be aware of what’s going on around you, Harry. Just like all of us.”

* * *

“You’re impressively terrible at this for all the time we’ve spent together, Potter,” Snape drawled. “All that time with that idiot squirrel-stuffer hasn’t done you any good, I see.”

“ _ Lupin _ is a much better teacher than you are,” Harry snapped. “He actually  _ helps _ me.”

“Yes, well, making rabbits have tea parties in the afterlife won’t exactly earn you your keep. This is your family legacy. So learn it.”

Harry grumbled as he turned up the temperature.

“You know that Sirius Black guy?”

Snape stiffened.

“I do.”

“So you know he was my godfather, then.” Harry frowned. “Still is, I guess?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s in prison for . . .”

“For being the reason your parents are dead — as well as Peter Pettigrew.”

“Peter Pettigrew?” Harry asked. “Nobody’s said anything about him.”

Snape’s lip curled up into a smirk.

“He’s not exactly a memorable man, but Black still killed him in cold blood. They never proved it, but Black was the last person seen at Pettigrew’s home, which was ransacked. Typical of a methhead, I would say.”

“So he didn’t only kill my parents, but he killed this Pettigrew man too?”

Snape narrowed his eyes.

“Allegedly.”

“Wow.” Harry bit his lip. “I . . . I have this feeling that he’s going to come after me too. Honestly, I feel like he might’ve put Lucius Malfoy up to shooting at my lawnmower.”

Snape snorted.

“Lucius Malfoy shot your lawnmower because you were going to beat his precious son. That’s it. Now get to  _ work _ .”

* * *

Harry still had a very bad feeling about Sirius Black and Lucius Malfoy when Minerva picked him up from Snape’s. He stayed quiet the entire time, and when he got home, he was surprised to see Ron there.

“Harry, you won’t believe what happened today!”

Harry frowned.

“What?”

“We found a hobo hovel!”

_ “A hobo hovel?” _

“Yeah, some hobo has holed up in our basement! There’s this space behind the furnace and —”

“That’s enough, Ronald!” Mrs. Weasley shouted. “Don’t go scaring Harry.”

“Sorry, Mom!” Ron replied.

And as Minerva began fussing over Mrs. Weasley, Ron lowered his voice.

“We think Sirius Black is living there.”


	31. The Shrieking Shack

“You think _ Sirius Black _ is living in your basement?” Hermione hissed. “Ronald, you have to tell someone! Howie, preferably!”

Ron shook his head.

“Mom and Dad said I’m not meant to talk about it. Too much fuss and they might arrest my brothers for uh . . . well, they’d find a reason.”

Harry groaned.

“But he could use  _ you _ to find  _ me _ .”

“And then kill him,” Hermione finished. She gave Harry an apologetic look. “Sorry, Harry.”

“It’s fine. It’s just the truth.” Harry scratched the back of his neck. “Ron, I think we need to teach you how to kill him.”

“How to — are you insane?”

“No,” Harry said. “If he comes for you in the middle of the night. Well . . . it could be the end of you, couldn’t it?”

Ron gulped.

“So what do I need to learn to do? I’m already an okay shot —”

“You’re a terrible shot,” Hermione interjected. “And if you really want to learn how to kill Sirius Black, we can’t get caught.”

“So we go to the woods,” Harry suggested.

Hermione shook her head.

“Hunting season. We’ll get caught.”

Harry groaned.

“So then  _ where _ do we go?”

“Well . . . there’s always the Shrieking Shack,” Hermione said.

“The  _ what _ ?”

“Oooh no,” Ron argued, shaking his head. “No way in hell am I going in there. My brothers tried to get me to go in there when I was six and —”

“Do you want to learn how to kill Sirius Black or not?”

Ron looked at her.

“Well, of course I do, but . . .”

“Then we’re going to the Shrieking Shack.”

* * *

The walk to the Shrieking Shack was long, but Hermione had told them they couldn’t take an ATV or a lawnmower. It was too loud.

“My feet hurt,” Ron complained.

“Shush!” Hermione hissed. “Someone will hear us!”

They came upon a house on a small hill. One that seemed very familiar.

“This is Lupin’s house!” Harry exclaimed. “The lights are on! He’s clearly home!”

“Lupin,” Hermione repeated. “Harry, you can’t be serious.”

“He’s been teaching me taxidermy,” Harry said. “I — I told you. Both of you.”

“We thought you were joking!” Ron exclaimed.

“Why would I joke about that?”

“Because he’s a werewolf!”

Hermione snorted.

“He’s not a  _ werewolf _ ,” Hermione corrected. “But he was Sirius Black’s accomplice.” She sighed. “Allegedly. Rumor has it he’s been out of town for ages.”

“Well he hasn’t been,” Harry said. “He lives here.”

“He used to be such a talented taxidermist,” Hermione whispered. “I wonder why he disappeared.”

“He  _ didn’t _ ,” Harry pressed. “Gellert and Minerva and Alfred know him. And Snape and Hagrid too.”

Hermione and Ronald exchanged confused glances.

“Harry, I don’t think you understand. Lupin shut down his taxidermy business ten years ago. He hasn’t been seen in town since.”

Harry frowned.

“But I — but he —” 

“Harry, have you considered that maybe Lupin has been lying to you? That maybe he’s been trying to get closer to you to bait you into Sirius?”

Harry had a new found anger. A new found confusion. He didn’t know if any of what Ron and Hermione was true, but if everyone he knew on the farm had pinned him in with some sort of dangerous killer, he wasn’t going to stand for it.

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”

And with that, he started running towards the front door of the Shrieking Shack.


	32. Dude in a Fursuit

Harry ripped open the door.

“DID YOU —” Harry gasped.

“Did I what?” Lupin’s voice echoed from inside of a giant . . . head?

It was a wolf. Or some cartoonized form of one. It resembled a mascot Harry might’ve seen at a football game.

He pulled the giant head off.

“Sorry, Harry. I can’t hear very well in there.” He wiped the sweat from his brow. “Just a little hobby I’ve gotten into since Sirius was taken away. I get on the computer with some friends and I —”

“Look, I don’t care if you’re a furry,” Harry said. “I’ve been on my cousin Dudley’s computer enough to know what one is. What I  _ do _ care about is Sirius, and why he didn’t come straight here when he escaped.”

Lupin sighed and collapsed onto his sofa, looking rather ridiculous in his wolf suit.

“I’ve wondered that too. I assume he was after the drugs. I couldn’t give those to him . . . “ He rubbed his face in his hands. “And I imagine he’s ashamed. I would never let him live down what he did to your family. That’s why I never leave here. Why so many people think I left here long ago. I’m too . . . I’m too ashamed. Only the other furries are nice to me. Because it’s all online and they don’t know about Sirius.”

Harry nodded.

“I know, I was wondering —”

But Harry was interrupted by a scream.

Lupin and him exchanged glances and raced outside, only to find Hermione with her gun drawn, quickly pointing it from one man to another.

The scream had come from Ron.

“Now, now, little girl, there’s no reason to shoot,” the taller man said, a man with dark hair that Harry recognized from the pictures in Lupin’s house.

Sirius Black.

The other man was short, fat, with big ears and scraggly hair. He had a much smaller pistol pulled, pointed right as Sirius’s head.

“You’re — you’re —” Hermione stammered.

Harry thought Lupin was going to pull the gun on Sirius, but when he reached into his wolf suit and pulled out his gun, he pointed it at the other man.

“Lupin, what are you —”

“Peter Pettigrew . . .” he breathed. “All these years . . . all these years you were supposedly dead, yet here you are.”

Peter grinned, a rotten-toothed smile.

“Going to shoot me, old friend? After all we’ve been through? After all we —”

“You let the whole town think I was a murderer! A methhead!” Sirius Black shouted. “I was never any of those things! I would’ve rather died than let Lily and James die!”

Sirius was coming towards him, and suddenly, he looked much more scared than before.

Terrified, Peter grabbed Ron and held him in front of him as a shield. Ron squirmed but couldn’t get away.

“Ah, but I’ve been living in your house,” Peter whispered. “Won’t you be kindly to me, Ron? Won’t you tell them I’m clean and polite.”

“It’s  _ you _ who’s been living in my house?  _ You’re _ the bum?”

Peter frowned.

“I am not a —”

Then Lupin’s gun went off.

Peter shrieked and ran into the woods, Sirius Black chasing after him and shrieking. Lupin tried to take off too, but he tripped over the feet of his wolf suit and fell to the ground.

Sirius stopped and ran to him.

“Remus? Remus are you okay?”

Lupin grunted and got to his feet.

“All — these — years — and — you — never — wrote! Not once!” he shouted, balling his fists. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. “You let me think . . . you let me think you killed him! You let me think you did meth and you were the reason they died and —” He looked down at himself in horror. “AND YOU LET ME TURN INTO A FURRY!”

Sirius recoiled.

“Remus, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “They — they didn’t deliver my letters. Because I did write. And I thought you were just angry at me so I stopped . . . but I never stopped thinking about you. Not for a single day.”

Harry felt the blush creep up on the back of his neck as the two men stared at each other.

He turned the other way, but he was quite sure he heard the wet sounds of a smooch.

“Okay, so we need to get you cleaned up,” Lupin finally said. “Mary Macdonald — she makes fake IDs still —” 

But he was interrupted.

The sound of sirens approached and Howie pulled up into the driveway, his gun pulled.

“What in the —” He looked from Lupin to Sirius. “Lupin, you — you should’ve called —” 

“No, Howie, you don’t understand —” Lupin said.

But Howie didn’t listen.

“Back away from him, Lupin.”

Lupin stayed still.

“I SAID BACK AWAY FROM HIM!”

“But — but Mr. Black — he — didn’t do anything wrong. It was Peter Pettigrew,” she explained. “He faked his own death and —”

“Peter Pettigrew is dead,” Howie insisted, seizing Sirius by the wrist. He tucked his gun in his waistband rather than in its holster. “C’mon Black, you know the drill.”

Sirius sighed and turned around, letting Howie cuff him.

“You can’t do this,” Lupin spat. “He didn’t do anything!”

“Well, according to his trial he did.”

“But Peter Pettigrew,” Harry cut in. “He really was here. He —”

“Probably some scam,” Howie cut in. “Sirius was always one for the scams. Remember those IDs he used to shill out with Mary Macdonald?”

Lupin flushed.

“I’ll be hiring a lawyer,” he said. “And it’ll be a good one! Not a public defender this time!”

Howie started pulling Sirius towards the police cruiser.

And with a forlorn look to Harry and Lupin, Sirius slipped into the back.


	33. Pig Ridin' and Power Tools

“We have to save Sirius,” Harry breathed, following Lupin into the house. “We can’t just let him — we can’t just let —” 

“They’ve taken him to prison, Harry. There’s not much we can do now,” Lupin lamented. He grabbed his giant wolf head and pulled it on. His voice lowered to an echo. “This is my life now. Taxidermy and furry forums.”

“No!” Hermione shouted, pulling the giant head off of him. “Your life is helping us find a way to help Sirius. And —” Her eyes widened. “Harry, when was Forkfeet supposed to be put to slaughter?”

Harry frowned.

“Tomorrow. But Sirius isn’t a pig so —” 

“I’m not saying we save Forkfeet  _ instead _ of Sirius. I’m saying we save them  _ together _ .”

“And how d’you propose we do that?” Ron asked.

Hermione turned to look at Lupin.

“Mr. Lupin, I saw some taxidermy of a gator riding a boar in your kitchen. That saddle you made . . . it’s custom, right?”

“Why — why yes. I had it made at a saddlery in Texas, but —” 

“ _ Please _ tell me you didn’t superglue it down.”

“No . . . No, it’s removable. Actually, it’s a set. I haven’t yet finished the family of prairie dogs, but you can replace the gator with them and —”

“I need that saddle,” she said, determinedly. “Overnight.”

* * *

“This is crazy, you know,” Ron said, following Harry and Hermione out to the pigpen. “You know we’ll be seen —”

“Be seen doin’ what?”

The trio gasped as they saw Hagrid petting Forkfeet, tears running down his cheeks.

“I — Hagrid, are you okay?” Hermione asked.

“Yeah,” he lied, sniffling. “I’ll be fine. I just — I was just sayin’ goodbye. He’s a good pig, y’know. What he did to that Malfoy boy . . . That wasn’t like him. He’d never —”

“We know, Hagrid,” Harry cut in. “And we’re going to save him.”

Hagrid drew his bushy brows together.

“What d’ya mean?”

“We mean we’re going to save him. Lupin has a pickup truck at the Badger Creek and Eagle Road intersection. He has a livestock trailer,” Hermione quickly explained. “We’re going to ride Forkfeet up to the cell at the jail, we’re going to get Sirius, and we’re going to take him with us before they transfer him to the prison up in Bradford.”

Hagrid’s mouth fell open.

“But why would you save that — that  _ murderer _ !” Hagrid bellowed. “No way, no how! I don’t know how Lupin talked you into this —” 

“He didn’t do it,” Harry explained. “He — he’s not a murderer. So we have to save him. He’s innocent, just like Forkfeet!”

Hagrid took a shaky breath.

“And where will they take him?” Hagrid asked. “Somewhere good? Onto a farm somewhere else?”

“He’ll live with Lupin and Sirius. They’re going to call him Witherhooves.”

Hagrid sniffed.

“Can I visit him?”

Hermione smiled and patted his forearm.

“Of course you can.”

Hagrid inhaled sharply and nodded.

“Then I say we do it.”

“FINALLY!” Ron shouted, hoisting the saddle onto the pig. “This thing is frickin’ heavy!”

They latched the saddle onto the pig and Harry and Hermione gave Ron a grave look.

“You need stand watch,” Harry said. “If Minerva finds out —”

“Stand watch?!” Ron exclaimed. “So  _ you _ two get to ride a pig while me and Hagrid have to stay back and listen to Gellert and Alfred get out their morning farts?”

Hermione and Harry exchanged looks.

“Yes, pretty much,” Harry said. “Thanks for understanding.”

Ron argued, but he and Hermione climbed onto Forkfeet and smacked his behind to urge him forward. Forkfeet grunted and bolted out the gate, bouncing them all the way down the road.

“I’ve never ridden a pig before,” Hermione said, uncertainly. “Lots of horses and a few cows but — oh no!”

It was an Animal Control truck, and Hermione tried to steer Forkfeet into the ditch but he wouldn’t budge.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no!” she repeated.

But nothing happened. 

As they passed the Animal Control truck, they saw that the driver was fiddling with his cell phone, and they kept riding the pig towards the intersection.

“We’re close,” Harry breathed. “We’re nearly to Eagle Road.”

They rode the oinking pig all the way to Eagle Road, where they saw the tiny, one-cell jail where Sirius was being kept. Quietly, they crept up upon the bars.

“Psst!” Hermione hissed as they approached the bars. “Psssst!”

After several seconds, they saw Sirius come to the window. His eyes widened.

“What are you two doing here?!”

“We’re here to save you!” Harry exclaimed. “Come on out! Hop on!”

“I —” Sirius looked behind him. “I don’t think I can fit through the bars.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and pulled her messenger bag from her shoulder.

Harry furrowed his brow as she reached inside and pulled out some kind of power tool with a saw on the end. She turned it on, and sparks flew as she cut the metal bars.

Sirius’s eyes widened and Harry heard a guard inside yelling at him, but there was only one car parked in the parking lot so Harry knew the guard was alone. As soon as the bars fell, Sirius crawled out the window and Harry and Hermione left him with Forkfeet.

The guard came outside trying to see what happened, but Hermione simply sniffled and said.

“Some mean man pushed us and told us he was here to break his friend out of jail! He went that way!”

She pointed in the opposite direction Sirius had went, and they quickly ran away.


	34. Fish, Crawdads, and a Shiny Craftsman Lawnmower

Harry glued a small crawdad to a bass. The crawdad looked like he was riding the bass like a bucking bronco.

“That’s good work,” Lupin said with a smile. “Very good work indeed.”

“Well, I did learn from the best,” Harry said.

Lupin grinned. “You know, Harry. Alfred was telling me your aunt and uncle want you back home with everything foing on with Sirius. But if you wanted, you could always stay with us.”

Sirius nodded from the living room, holding his glass of whiskey in the air.

“As a matter of fact,” Lupin said, “I think Sirius may have something for you in the backyard, in case you ever decide to come back.”

Sirius looked up over his magazine and nodded.

“Let’s go.”

Harry followed Sirius as he grunted getting up. He noticed several tattoos, mostly of motorcycles and skulls. As they went towards the door, Harry noticed a giant wolf suit in the trash.

“So Lupin’s not a furry anymore?”

Sirius shook his head. “Remus is much more than a furry. Sometimes he just gets lost in himself.”

They slipped into the backyard and Harry looked around. All he saw were several tarps — which was what the backyard usually looked like.

“Now Harry, I’m doing this as your godfather. That aunt and uncle of yours have no right to tell you you can’t have this.” He took a sip of his whiskey. “Got it?”

Harry nodded.

“Got it.”

“Good,” Sirius said, heading towards one of the tarps. He raised his eyebrows. “You ready?”

Sirius pulled the tarp off a lump, and Harry covered his mouth.

It was beautiful.

A bright red Craftsman mower gleamed in the moonlight. Harry could tell it was the newest model, but Sirius had swapped out several pieces to make it much faster.

“You like it?”

“I love it!” Harry exclaimed. “I — but Sirius — how could you afford this?”

He winked. “The Blacks have a little bit of money. My cousin married into the Malfoys, you know.”

Harry furrowed his brow.

“You’re related to Draco.”

Sirius chuckled.

“That little shit? Yeah, I guess so. Not proud of it.”

Harry laughed, but then his face fell.

“Sirius, as much as I love it, I can’t bring this with me to my aunt and uncle’s. They won’t let me drive it.”

“Ah, but when you come back here you can drive it, right?” He winked.

Harry grinned.

“Yeah. Definitely.”


	35. Beer and Brul-grare-ee-uh

**Year Four**

Uncle Vernon looked particularly unhappy that morning as he was packing Dudley’s luggage into the minivan. He was wheezing and sputtering, particularly upset because he had been forced to walk the stairs two whole times that day.

“And when are these Weaselfarts coming to pick you up?” Dudley asked. “They sound made up to me.”

“I didn’t _make them up_ ,” Harry growled. “And they’re picking me up in an hour.”

“Yeah, well, you best behave yourself when you’re with them,” Uncle Vernon spat. “I’d like Mr. Weasley’s phone number so I know if you misbehave.”

“I’m sure that won’t be a problem,” Harry said. “I’ll call you with it when they get here.”

Uncle Vernon narrowed his eyes, but nodded.

“Dudley! I need you in the car in five minutes. Marge’s is a long drive away.”

Dudley sputtered something about wanting to stay back at the house and tucked his iPhone in his pocket as he headed to the car.

“Now you’ll behave while you’re at this . . . what is it you’re going to?”

“It’s like a race,” Harry replied. “Totally safe.”

“They're taking you to the track?” Vernon asked, frowning.

“No, no! Not the track,” Harry replied. “I mean, yes, the track, but — well it’s not for gambling and it’s safe for kids.”

Uncle Vernon looked wary again.

“Vernon! Vernon, we need to go!” Aunt Petunia exclaimed.

“Fine,” he grumbled, eyeing Harry. He wagged a finger. “But if I hear one funny story about what you did this weekend, I’ll be suing those Weaselfarts as soon as I can, God help me!”

With that, he marched towards the door, Aunt Petunia scurrying out before him. He seized the handle and gave Harry a pointed glare as he slammed it shut.

* * *

After about an hour, the Weasleys’ pickup pulled up. Arthur Weasley raised his fist to the door to pound on it, but Harry opened it before he could.

“Oh! I was just gonna knock! Ready to go, Harry?”

“I’m so ready to go.”

He jogged to the pickup and crawled inside beside Ron, who had apparently come along for the ride. 

“Excited for the derby, Harry?”

“So excited!” Harry exclaimed. “Who all is coming?”

“My brothers and sister, Dad, Hermione.” He frowned. “Mum was going to come but she got bit by a snapping turtle and she’s on all kinds of painkillers.”

“Ouch. A snapping turtle?”

“She was noodling for dinner,” Ron explained. “Reached into a honey hole for a catfish but and damn near lost her ring finger.”

“Blood was everywhere,” Arthur said with a frown. “You got everything, Harry?”

Harry nodded and patted his backpack.

“All set!”

Arthur nodded and they started the drive.

* * *

“Pile in, kids!” Arthur shouted as they pulled into the driveway. “I’ve got some blankets back there. Some snacks. Just stay out of my beer, okay?”

“Sure, Dad,” Fred (or George?) said. He winked as soon as Arthur looked down at the map in his lap.

“They’ll get us beers, you know,” Ron whispered in his ear. “They’ve been stealing them from Dad all summer and he hasn’t had a clue.”

“I heard that,” Hermione said, loudly from Harry’s other side.

She was pressed up close to him, and Harry couldn’t help but feel the burn in his ears. He hadn’t seen her in awhile, and the summer had only made her glow with a tan. Her curls were pulled into braids, and Harry was wondering if she had a boyfriend.

A boyfriend?

Since when did he care if Hermione had a boyfriend?

He shook away the thought and chewed on his finger as Hermione snitched on Ron for trying to use his brothers to get his dad’s alcohol. Arthur made it quite clear what he would do if he found any of them stealing his beers, with the window open, so Fred and George would be aware of the consequences as well.

“So who are you rooting for, Harry?” Arthur asked. “Ron is rooting for Viktor Krum!”

“Best lawnmower derbyer in the world!” Ron exclaimed. 

“The world?” Harry laughed.

“Yeah. Literally. He’s from . . . Belgium? Burgundy? Baltimore?”

“Bulgaria, you idiot,” Hermione cut in. “Bulgaria. How do you call yourself a fan if you can’t even pronounce his country?”

“Brul-grare-ee-uh,” Ron (incorrectly) sounded out.

Hermione rolled her eyes and peered through the window between the cab and the pickup bed.

“What about y’all? Who are you rooting for?”

“The Fighting Irish Boys!” Fred and George said together.

“Me too!” Ginny added.

“The Fighting Irish Boys?” Harry asked. “I didn’t know this was a team competition.”

“It’s not. They’re brothers,” George (or Fred?) said. “They don’t care who wins, as long as it’s one of them. They enter together and win together.”

“That’s not against the rules?” Harry asked.

“Not really,” George (or Fred?!) answered, shrugging in unison. “Not yet at least.”

“So who are you rooting for, Harry?” Ron urged.

Harry looked at Hermione, wondering who she was rooting for. He finally decided she must be rooting for Krum, based on how annoyed she had been with Ron.

“Krum,” he said, resolutely. “Definitely Krum.”

He couldn’t quite make out what Hermione was thinking by the look on her face, but for some reason, he really hoped she liked Krum too.


	36. Hotdogs and the Irish Boys

Harry was quite certain Hermione  _ really _ liked Viktor Krum. After the four-hour drive, they settled in the stands, hotdogs in their laps and Mountain Dews in hand — all but Hermione.

“Want a hotdog, Hermione?” Arthur asked. “I smuggled extra and they’ve been sitting with some hand warmers to stay heated up.”

“No thank you, Mr. Weasley.”

So she sat that, her posture perfect, her legs crossed, sipping from a plain bottle of water that she had purchased at the concession stand.

“If I would’ve known someone would drink water I would’ve put the big thermos in the cooler,” Arthur laughed. “No Mountain Dew?”

“No, thank you. Thanks for asking.”

Harry frowned until a few moments later, George (or Fred?) nudged her and said, “Want some  _ Mountain Dew _ ?” He winked and made air quotes.

“No, I do not want your beer, Fred Weasley,” she said loudly.

Harry was wrong. It  _ was _ Fred.

“Hey!” Arthur shouted. “What’d I tell you about my beer?”

Fred and George groaned and passed him the cans, both of which he peeled a fake sleeve from that looked like a Mountain Dew label.

“Thanks a lot, tattletail.” George muttered.

“It was a good try, boys!” Arthur chuckled. “Where did you get these? Never seen such a thing!”

He tucked the fake labels in his front pocket.

“When do you think they’ll start?” Hermione asked.

“Soon, I imagine. It’s almost — oh! I hear the engines!”

Harry did too. The roar came from the wings of the giant dirt track and he felt his heart lurch in his chest. Hermione leaned forward, and his heart sunk once more.

“Excited for Krum?”

Her cheeks tinged pink.

“No more than you, I’m sure.”

And with that, she crossed her arms, and refused to look at him for the entire duration of the derby.

* * *

What Harry would describe as river dance music was playing. The camp was full of bonfires, green beer, and green shirts. Lawnmowers revved all over, and Harry even got a glimpse of Viktor Krum himself as he meandered through the camp, laughing and shaking hands with the fans.

Harry hated the way Hermione stared at him, eyes as wide as the first time she saw him shoot a clay pigeon behind her house.

He hadn’t even won!

“Krum’s lookin’ like a real asshole now, huh?” Fred laughed.

Harry had learned Fred was the one wearing the green necklace with the shamrocks on it and George was the one that had painted his face. It wouldn’t be so easy to tell them apart the next day.

“Yeah, the Fightin’ Irish Boys kicked his ass!” Ginny exclaimed, giddily.

“I don’t know why you keep saying it was both of them,” Ron muttered, “Only McCarthy won.”

“Oh, don’t be bitter, Ron,” Arthur said, mussing his son’s hair. He belched. “Georgie! Throw me another beer, would you?”

George threw another beer, and just as Arthur caught it, they heard gunshots.

“Ha ha, seems the Irish are celebrating,” Fred laughed.

Arthur’s face fell.

“No, boys. That’s . . .” Another gunshot went off and people screamed. “That’s not the Irish.”

The screams drew nearer.

“Boys, get in the truck.”

“But Dad — “ they argued.

“DO AS I SAY!”

Fred and George piled in the bed of the truck, helping Ginny in as well. Ron, Hermione, and Harry raced to the cab and clambered inside. Cars were crowding the road to get out, and Harry could see the sweat upon Arthur’s brow.

“Ready, kids?”

“Mr. Weasley . . . are you sober enough to drive?” Hermione asked.

“Hermione, I love you as one of my own. I think you know that. But now is  _ not _ the time to be an insufferable know-it-all.”

That was when Harry saw them.

Several men dressed in old blue jeans and flannel were marching through the streets, hooting and hollering and shooting their rifles. They all were shrieking something that Harry couldn’t quite understand.

“They’re methheads,” Hermione deduced.

Arthur sighed. “Not all of them. Some of them are just friends of Tom Riddle’s.”

“But we’re four hours away.”

“Yes, well, Tom Riddle is a powerful man.”

“WHERE ARE YA? WHERE ARE YA?”

“They’re looking for people that owe them money,” Arthur explained. “No Weasleys owe them money, fortunately.”

“But Ginny — “ Ron started.

“Yes I know, I know! I have to wait for this damn minivan . . .”

The minivan took a five-point turn and moved, but Riddle’s workers weren’t letting them back out.

“Hey!” one of them shouted. “One of y’all owe us money?”

“Nope,” George said, grinning. “Nice try though, buddy.”

The worker growled and waved over his friend. They started chattering amongst themselves before taking a step towards the pickup. One pulled a revolver from his pocket and pointed it at George.

“Want to mock me again?”

George was getting ready to respond (likely with something equally mocking) but the man didn’t have time.

“Hey! Over here!” My father wants to have a word with you!”

Harry furrowed his brow when he saw Draco Malfoy leaning against a car with a smirk on his face.

The two men hurried towards him.

He raised his eyebrows and Harry drew his own together.

When he turned back around, he noticed Hermione was blushing.


	37. Peeves the Methhead Drunk

“I’m glad you made it here safely, Harry,” Minerva said, patting him on the back. “It’s a big year this year.”

“Is it?” Harry asked, still distracted by Hermione’s clear interest in Draco Malfoy and Viktor Krum.

“Oh yes. It’s the Tri-County Fair Tournament this year.”

“Mmm,” he hummed.

“There will be the rodeo, the corn maze, and the noodling tournament.”

Harry turned to her.

“Noodling? It’s that what Molly Weasley got bit doing?”

“Yes, well, that’s the fun of it,” Minerva laughed. “You never know what’s going to bite!”

Harry shuddered.

“Well that’s just fine because I won’t be participating anway.”

“You’ll be happy to hear that you can’t. It’s for seventeen and older because of how dangerous it is.”

“So who is participating?” Harry asked.

“Well, a lot of people will put their names in the hat and whoever gets drawn will participate. We only do this tournament once every ten years so it’s a big deal, you know. Champions from all over the world come.”

“Really? They come  _ here _ to participate?”

Minerva nodded. “Oh, yes. It’s quite the affair.” Her eyes widened. “Oh no.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Quick, boy, duck under the table!”

Harry confusedly did as he was told. Minerva ducked along with him, which only confused him further.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered. “What are we hiding from?”

_ “Peeves,” _ she hissed. “I saw him walking up the drive. If you —”

There was a knock on the door.

“Minnie! Alfie! Gellert! I’d like to have a word with you!” the man sang.

“Who the hell is Peeves?”

“He’s gone off. He’s always been annoying but the meth and the drinking have really turned him for the worse. He’ll come here and taunt us for hours until he gets so high he wrecks the house. Filch the garbage man is always trying to chase him down because he’ll take stuff out of the dumpsters and spread it all around like confetti.”

“Isn’t that against the law?”

“Well sure, but Howie doesn’t do anything with him. He got arrested once and Howie ended up in the hospital with a busted knee for a week.”

“OH MINNIE! YOU MUST BE HIDING!”

“What does he want?”

“Probably nothing. He’ll stumble around drunk or high sometimes.”

Harry nodded.

“About the tournament —”

“ICKLE ALFIES! GELLERT! MINNIE MOUSE!”

Minerva squeezed her eyes shut.

“So you said people all over the world come . . . Where are they from? I just . . . I can’t picture foreigners coming to this town.”

“Oh, they come from France. Bulgaria. England. Last time the Canadians came but I doubt they do again after what happened to one of their star hockey players . . .”

“A star hockey player was in the tournament?”

“But of course. Everyone knows hockey players make excellent noodlers.”

“I’m going to bust the door down!”

Before they could surface, Gellert rushed to the door.

“I’ll shoot you if you even try, Peeves.”

Peeves laughed about something, but Harry assumed he must have walked away because Gellert let out a heavy sigh.

“You can come out now.”

Harry and Minerva came out from under the table and sighed in unison.

“I was just telling Harry about the tournament.”

“Ooh! The tournament!” Gellert exclaimed. “Amazing! You going to join?”

“I’m not seventeen. And I don’t want to anyway. I’ve faced enough danger in my life.”

Gellert nodded.

“That’s fair enough. We’re definitely going to take you to watch though. Once in a lifetime thing!”

“Doesn’t it happen every ten years?”

Gellert scratched his head.

“Well, I guess so, but I smoke meth so I might not be here in ten years.”

Harrt snorted.

“Fair enough.”


	38. Heartbreak and Belches

“They’re drawing for the tournament tomorrow,” Ron said. “My brothers are going to try and convince them they’re old enough.”

“They won’t be able to,” Hermione said, boredly flipping the page of her book. “Howie checks IDs.”

“They’re making fake ones. I wanted them to make one for me too but they said no.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Hermione,” Harry said, scratching the back of his neck, “are you going to the tournament, then?”

“Obviously. It only happens once every ten years.”

“Oh. Well,  _ ahem _ , Gellert told me we had to get tickets ahead for seats . . . So would you like to sit with me? I mean — us. I mean — Gellert and Alfred and Minerva and me? We could get your ticket so you could be by us.”

Hermione made a face.

“Oh, sorry Harry. I already told someone else I’d sit with him. He uh — he asked me a few weeks ago — at a shooting event. I already have my ticket.”

Harry frowned.

“Who?”

“Does it matter?” she sighed.

“Well, no, I was just . . . I was just curious.”

“Right, well. I’m sure Ron will be happy to sit with you.”

“Ron. Right.”

“Yeah, I’ll sit with you, Harry.” Ron said, showing a handful of Fritos into his mouth. He chugged his Mountain Dew and crushed the can. “Mind getting me another Mountain Dew?”

“You’re a terrible host, Ron,” Hermione spat.

“Or a smart one.”

“Maybe it’d be smart if it ever worked,” Harry muttered.

“Damn. Get turned down for a date and suddenly you’re quite an asshole, huh?” Ron got to his feet. “Mountain Dew for anyone else?”

“No thanks,” Harry grumbled.

_ Date. _

The word he was trying to avoid, Ron had put out into the air.

“Um. Actually, I’m going to go,” Hermione muttered. “I have some shooting to do.”

“Right,” Harry muttered, his neck hot. “Well, I guess I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah, see you later.”

She left, and Ron stumbled back in, Mountain Dew in hand.

He belched.

“Where’d Hermione go?”

Harry shrugged.

“To go shooting, I guess.”


	39. Fake IDs and Big Announcements

The fairgrounds were big. There were lights and sounds and rides and the smell of fried food lingered in the air. They had to walk nearly a half mile just to get to the makeshift stage in the middle of the grounds.

Across the top, there was a banner that said “THE TRI-COUNTY FAIR TOURNAMENT.”

“You ready for the drawing?” Ron asked, biting into a fried turkey leg. He had barbecue sauce all over his face from the ribs he’d had moments before. “I wanna try some rides after they tell us who it is.”

“Yeah, that sounds fine,” Harry muttered, looking for Hermione.

“You alright there, buddy?”

“Yeah I’m fine. Just uh . . . just excited to hear who won.”

Ron nodded.

“Heeeellllllo, Foxworthy County!” a man shouted, sashaying onto the stage. “How’s everybody doing tonight?”

Everyone cheered. Fred and George exchanged smirks.

“Good to hear, good to hear . . . I’m Ludo Bagman, as you all know, and I’ll be here to host tonight’s drawing. Are y’all excited?”

The crowd roared.

“Good, good! So first of all, let’s get Mr. Crouch here with the hat.”

The crowed roared again as a man with a mustache quietly walked onto the stage and held out his hat. Behind him, Percy Weasley waited in the wings.

“Why is Percy up there?”

“Crouch works at the mayor’s office. Percy’s his assistant. He really puts the ‘ass’ in the word, though,” Fred (or George?) laughed.

“Yeah ‘cause he’s stuck up Crouch’s,” the other twin quipped.

They snickered together and Mrs. Weasley smacked them upside the head.

Crouch hurried away and Bagman grinned as he shook the hat.

“Ready, everyone?”

“YEAAAH!!” the crowd cheered.

“Alright . . . here’s the first one . . .”

He pulled out a card and frowned.

“Fred and George Weasley? Entering together, interesting!”

Fred and George beamed and hurried towards the stage, but Howie stopped them and shook his head.

“You boys ain’t old enough!” He frowned and shouted to Molly, “They aren’t old enough, right Molly?”

Harry looked up to see she was red in the face.

“No, Howie, they most certainly are not!”

“But we have ID!” they exclaimed in unison, fumbling with their wallts. “See!”

Howie swiped away their IDs and narrowed his eyes.

“Fakes! You boys are in big trouble . . . Sorry for making a scene, Ludo . . . Carry on.” He grabbed Fred and George by the wrists and dragged them away, much to their protest.

“ _ Ahem _ , well that was an interesting twist of events. Here we go again . . .” He pulled a name and grinned. “Fleur Delacour! The noodling champion from France!”

A slim, beautiful blonde girl hurried towards the stage and kissed Ludo on both cheeks before accepting a small gold badge.

“A lovely contestant indeed . . .” He drew another name. “Next we have Cedric Diggory!”

A strapping young man hurried towards the stage and accepted his badge. A man announcing that he was his father clapped excitedly.

“And finally . . . oh, we have two stuck together . . . I guess these will be the last two . . .” Ludo grinned. “VIKTOR KRUM!”

Harry’s jaw dropped as the same Viktor Krum from the match grinned and hopped onto the stage without using the stairs. He clapped Ludo on the back as Ludo repeated, “big fan, big fan . . .”

“And finally!” he exclaimed. “HARRY POTTER!”

The crowd gasped, Molly the loudest.

“He’s not old enough!” Draco Malfoy shouted. 

Harry’s eyes were drawn to him and his stomach fell. Hermione was latched to his side, her hand in his. 

He thought he was going to vomit, for more reason than one.

“Yeah, he’s not old enough!” Ron shouted too.

The crowd was in an uproar, but suddenly, just as Howie was returning, a man held up a paper.

“HE IS OF AGE!” the man announced. “LILY AND JAMES POTTER HID HIS AGE FROM US ALL BECAUSE THEY HAD HIM OUT OF WEDLOCK!”

“EVERYONE KNEW LILY AND JAMES HAD HIM OUT OF WEDLOCK!” another man shouted. “WHAT’S THAT GOT TO DO WITH ANYTHING?”

“BUT THIS WAS VERY EARLY! SHE WAS A TEENAGER!” the man boomed, approaching the stage. “I happen to have Potter’s birth certificate.”

“That’s a bold-faced lie!” Arthur yelled. “Lily and James did no such thing! Look at him! He’s not seventeen!”

“SILENCE!” Alfred shouted. “Let’s all listen to what Mad-Eye has to say.”

Harry saw that he was named Mad-Eye because he had a glass eye that didn’t quite seem to fit right.

Mad-Eye shook the paper in front of Howie’s face.

“Look at it, Howie. It’s legitimate.”

Howie frowned and examined it.

“Well, I don’t know much about birth certificates . . . but it’s got a raised seal . . .”

“I told you all!” Mad-Eye exclaimed. “The boy’s of age!”

“But did he even put his name in?” Molly exclaimed. “Did he actually enter or did someone else enter for him?”

“I — I didn’t enter,” Harry whispered.

“You’re sure, Harry?” Alfred hissed.

“I . . . I . . .”

“HE’S LYING!” a large French woman said. “Look at him! He’s lying!”

Hermione was staring at him, and suddenly, he realized he had a chance.

“I . . . okay, yeah, I put my name in,” Harry said, his ears red. “I knew . . . I knew my age wasn’t right growing up. My cousin had birthdays and I didn’t.”

Alfred narrowed his eyes, but nodded.

“Very well, then.” He gave Ludo a tight smile from afar. “It seems we have all lost track of time when it comes to the likes of Mr. Potter! It wouldn’t be the first time we had an age wrong! Don’t we all have nieces and nephews we think are five but are actually twelve?”

The crowd stirred, but seemed to agree.

He smiled.

“So I think it’s safe to assume it could happen with Mr. Potter too.”

The crowd had a mixed reaction, but Ludo nodded.

“Okay, then. I . . . I think we’re settled on it then. Mr. Potter is the final champion!”

Harry nervously went to the stage and collected his badge, keenly away of both the beaming people and the scowling ones. When he looked at Hermione and Draco, he saw Draco was scowling and Hermione didn’t look happy either.

Maybe he’d made a mistake.


	40. Yes, a Donkey Sack

“Hey Ron, can you believe it?” Harry asked, marching towards his friend from the stage. “Me! A Tri-County Fair champion!”

“Yeah,” Ron muttered, “amazing.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Well, I just want to know how you did it,” Ron said. “How  _ did _ you do it?”

“I — okay, well I didn’t really . . . In all honesty, I was trying to impress Hermione but she —”

“Trying to impress Hermione?” Ron asked. “Do you like her or something?”

Harry blushed.

“Well . . . yeah.”

“But  _ I _ like Hermione.”

Harry furrowed his brow.

“Since when?”

“Since always!”

“But she makes fun of you!”

“So!”

“ _ So _ , obviously she doesn’t like you back.”

“Yeah, and what makes you think she likes  _ you _ ?”

Harry frowned.

“Well, I —”

Then, right on cue, Hermione and Draco strolled by, her laughing and Malfoy smirking.

“Tri-County Champion, huh Potter? Good luck. People have died, you know.”

“Shut up, Draco,” Harry spat. “You’re just jealous!”

Draco snickered.

“Am I? Wow, I didn’t even realize.” He looked down at him. “You’re a bit short for seventeen.”

And with that, he bumped into him on his way by, smiling back at the giggling Hermione.

Harry’s stomach sank.

“He’s not wrong, you know,” Ron said. “People  _ have _ died.”

“But you’ll help me, right?” Harry asked. “You know, I don’t live here all the time, so it’s not fair —”

“No, I won’t help you! I’m still mad at you!” Ron humphed. “Malfoy is a donkey-sack, though. I’ll give you that.”

“Yeah,” Harry muttered, staring after the blond and Hermione. “A donkey-sack.”

* * *

“I can’t believe you put yourself in danger like this!” Sirius scolded him. “People have  _ died _ !”

“So I’ve been told,” Harry groaned. “And I didn’t put my name in. I just said that to . . .” He stopped, his ears burning. “I just said that to impress Ron.”

Lupin put down the glue gun he was using to attach a kerchief to a bobcat.

“Harry, you know just because your godfather and I are gay doesn’t mean you have to be . . . but if you are —”

“I’m not gay!” Harry scowled. “I just wanted to . . . I wanted to seem cool. Okay?”

His godfather and Lupin exchanged confused glances.

“Harry,” Sirius said, softly, “if you wanted to seem cool, I’d take you out for a ride on the Harley. You don’t have to put yourself in  _ danger _ .”

“Well, it was a sudden decision when my name was somehow drawn out of the hat. Like I said, I didn’t put it there.”

Sirius drew his brows together.

“So someone else put your name in that hat?” 

“Yes!” Harry scowle. “Because I sure didn’t!”

Lupin gasped.

“Do you know who would do such a thing?” Sirius asked. “Any of your friends that are older?”

Harry shook his head.

“I don’t have any friends that are seventeen or older. The rest are all . . . adults. And Minerva and Alfred tore me a right new one over it.”

“Well I have to tell you, Harry,” Sirius whispered, “whoever put your name in that hat is  _ not _ your friend. You’ll need to watch your back.”

“And how do I do that?” Harry spat. “What do I do?”

“You prepare,” Sirius said. “It’s all you can do.”

“But how do I prepare for a  _ noodling _ tournament?”

“You can worry about that later. First, you need to get ready for the rodeo.”


	41. Saddled Pigs and Square-Dancing with Old Ladies

“That should do ‘er,” Hagrid said, patting a hog on the backside. “All saddled up.”

Harry stared at the creature, and the saddle on its back.

“Hagrid, won’t I be riding . . . bulls?”

“Well sure,” Hagrid grunted, “but we can get Norma here to buck. Can’t we, Norma?”

He slapped the pig on the behind and she oinked.

“A real bucking bronco,” Harry muttered. He rubbed his face. “I’ll never learn like this.”

“Ah, well I don’t have a bull round here . . .” Hagrid sighed. “You really ain’t ready for this, are yeh?”

“No, I’m not,” Harry complained. “And worse yet, Hermione hates me for it.”

“Oh, she don’t hate yeh,” Hagrid said. “She just wants yeh to be safe.”

“Yeah, somehow I doubt that,” Harry grumbled. “She’s been running around with  _ Draco Malfoy. _ ”

“Ah. So yeh like her as more than a friend, then.”

Harry sighed.

“I don’t know? Maybe? I — I actually don’t want to talk about this with you.” He went red in the face. “Look, thanks for trying, Hagrid, but I’m not sure how useful it’ll be to ride a pig. I’m going to go inside.”

And without another word, Harry went in, defeated and tired.

* * *

The next morning, Harry woke up to blinding light. He shielded his face and groaned, pulling the covers over his face, only to have them pulled away again.

“Nope! Up with you!”

Harry yelped, realizing it was Minerva, covering his bare upper half.

“What are you doing?” he gasped. He put his eyes on and looked out the window. “It’s still dark out!”

“And you have to learn to dance!” she exclaimed. “Get up!”

“Erm — could you leave so I can get dressed?”

Minerva rolled her eyes.

“Make it quick, Potter. And meet me downstairs.”

She quickly stepped out of the room and Harry rolled out of bed, reluctantly. He pulled on a plain white shirt and went downstairs, confused to see Minerva in a pair of overalls.

“Did you say I have to learn to dance?” he asked, groggily.

She gave him a firm nod.

“Have you ever square-danced, Potter?”

Harry cocked an eyebrow. He didn’t realize square-dancing was even a real thing.

“No. I — I thought that was something they just joked about on TV.”

Minerva gasped.

“It is one of our oldest traditions! You’ll have to dance with your date doing the square dance at the Mule Ball.”

“The Mule Ball?”

“Did nobody tell you? It’s the only event as important as the Tri-County Fair Tournament itself! It only happens when the Tri-County Fair Tournament is on.”

“So once every ten years.”

Minerva nodded.

“I assume you do not yet have a date, then?”

Harry shook his head. Of course he didn’t have a date. The idea of even having to find one made his cheeks burn.

“Well, surely you can just ask Hermione,” Minerva clipped.

Harry’s heart fell.

“No. I — I don’t think so. She’ll probably be going with . . .” He gulped. “Someone else.”

Minerva’s eyebrows shot up.

“I see. Well, for now, you’ll have to practice with me then.”

And with that, she turned on the stereo and grinned at him.

* * *

“You had to square-dance with  _ Minerva _ ?” Ron asked. “Boy, I’m sorry I was ever jealous of you.”

“Yeah, it was awful,” Harry mumbled. “And she told me I have to find a date to some Mule Ball. It’s a  _ requirement _ .”

Ron paled.

“Oh God. That means _ I  _ need a date.”

“Why? You don’t have to square-dance in front of everyone,” Harry said. “You can go by yourself if you want — or probably skip it altogether.”

Ron glared at him.

“And be the only person alone? Yeah right!”

“Well, I have no idea who I’m asking.” Harry groaned. “Since Hermione is probably going with Malfoy and can’t go with either of us.”

Ron sighed

“I mean, we could always just ask the Patils.”

Harry made a face.

“I guess. Maybe as a last resort. Padma has that dead tooth.”

“I think it’s kind of cute,” Ron said. “I mean . . . in a dead tooth kind of way.”

Harry stared at him.

“You really are an idiot, you know that?”

Ron shrugged.

“Then that makes you friends with an idiot.”

Harry wasn’t sure how that was meant to insult him, but he decided not to ask.


	42. Madam Maxipad and Madam Puddifoot's

“We should just go to Madam Puddifoot's to see if we can pick up some girls,” Ron suggested. “Even Hagrid’s got himself a girl.”

_ “Hagrid?”  _ Harry asked. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, some tall woman that came with Fleur Delacour. Her name’s Madam Maxipad or something.”

Harry nearly choked on his gum.

“Madam Maxipad. Ron, you’re the worst.”

Ron shrugged.

“So what d’you say? Let’s go see if we can pick up some girls?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Harry agreed. “We can take my lawnmower. It’s faster than your dad’s truck.”

* * *

Madam Puddifoots was the worst place Harry had ever been. It was steamy and smelled like potpourri and in bright pink booths, girls hugged cups of tea and coffee. Harry glared at Ron.

“ _ This _ is where you want to pick up girls?”

“Well, they’re everywhere, aren’t they?” Ron replied, gesturing the room. “Do you see any dudes here?”

“Well, no. But still. It’s awful.”

“So? Lots of girls to keep us occupied.”

With that, he swept in on a table of several girls, none of which Harry recognized. He leaned over them and said something, only for them all to laugh in his face. Ron hung his head in shame and returned to Harry’s side.

“They said no.”

“Which one?”

“All of them.”

“Well you can’t ask _all_ _of them_!”

“Why not? Same idea as birdshot. It’ll scatter and should at least hit one of them, right?”

Harry smacked his palm to his forehead.

“You’re even dumber than I — wait, is that Cho Chang?”

The girl he remembered from the lawnmower derbies was sitting alone in a corner, blowing away the steam from her mug.

“Yeah. She’s pretty cute. Should I go ask her?”

“No!” Harry hissed. “I was — I mean — maybe  _ I  _ should go ask her?”

“Is that your way of calling dibs?”

“It’s my way of saying she just saw you ask an entire table of girls and they all said no.”

It really was his way of calling dibs, but couldn’t very well say that.

“Ah. Yeah, fair enough. Go on, then. I’ll wait.”

Harry rubbed his temples. “Can you . . . I don’t know. Go sit somewhere? Don’t gawk at me.”

Ron shrugged.

“Fine.”

Ron took a seat at a corner table, and suddenly, Harry’s feet felt cemented to the floor. The more he watched Cho, the more beautiful he realized she was.

How could he possibly ask  _ her _ out? Hermione was pretty but she was approachable. Cho — Cho was an enigma. He barely knew her. If he remembered right, she was a bit older than him, and she wore heavy makeup lining her eyes.

She was  _ intimidating _ .

“Go on, dude!” Ron hissed. “You gonna do it or should I?”

That was what Harry needed, apparently, because his feet started carrying him towards her. Before he knew it, he was hovering over her table and she was smiling up at him.

She had a beautiful smile. One unlike any he had ever seen.

“Hello Harry!”

“H-hi,” he stammered, suddenly not sure how to speak. “You um — do you uh — sitting alone?”

“Oh, yeah. For now,” she said. “Want to join me?”

His heart leapt.

“Erm — yeah, that would be great.” He sat down across from her and twiddled his thumbs. “So you uh — are you upset there’s no derby this year?”

Cho shrugged.

“It’s a worthy sacrifice. I’m excited to watch the tournament. And you’re in it! How exciting!”

“Yeah,” Harry said, scratching the back of his neck. “Speaking of which . . . I have to square-dance first at the Mule Ball.”

“Oh, right! Me too!” 

Harry frowned.

“What?”

“Yeah, me and Cedric! We are dancing first as well. You knew, right?”

Harry’s heart fell.

“Yeah. I mean — yeah, I didn’t know you were going with Cedric but uh, but I’ll see you there.”

“Awesome! Oh, did you want a coffee? I’ll buy you one. It’s a big deal being —”

“No!” Harry stopped her. He got up from his spot at the table. “No, I um. I need to actually go. It was nice chatting.”

And with that, he hurried away, seizing Ron’s arm on his way out the door.

“What’s wrong?”

“She has a date,” Harry said through gritted teeth. “ _ Cedric _ .”

“Well, at least there’s still the Patil twins?”

Harry groaned.


	43. Charlie from the Rodeo and the Stolen Barley

“Enjoying being a celebrity, are we, Potter?” Snape drawled, fiddling with the barley bags.

“No,” Harry said, bitterly.

“Isn’t all you hoped, then?” Snape asked, a small smirk on his lips.

“No.”

“Well, certainly you are planning for the tournament challenges?”

“No,” Harry said, bitterly. “I have to find a date to square dance with.”

“I take it Miss Granger was uninterested,” Snape muttered.

“That’s none of your business.” Harry went red in the cheeks. “I think she uh — I think she’s going with Draco Malfoy.”

Snape cocked a brow.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Harry shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, though.”

“Yes, surely not,” Snape drawled. “Oh, Potter, there was one other thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop stealing from my ingredient cupboards. I don’t know what you think you’re going to do with six twenty-five-pound bags of barley, but I can assure you it won’t help you at all.”

Harry frowned. He hadn’t taken any barley at all.

* * *

“Got us the Patil twins,” Ron said, raising his eyebrow. “Fred got Alicia Spinnet and George got Angelina Johnson. Can’t say I’m not a bit jealous. Spinnet’s got a nice —”

“RON! I’ve got an ingrown hair on my back! Come help!” Mr. Weasley shouted.

Harry snorted as Ron groaned and left his bedroom to go assist his dad. The humor didn’t last long, though. He had a lot to think about.

The Mule Ball was coming soon, and so was the first challenge. He still had no idea how he was going to manage.

“Hey!” Ron said, out of breath. “Guess what!”

“What?”

“My brother Charlie’s here,” Ron said. “For the  _ rodeo.” _

Harry’s eyes widened. Did Ron’s brother Charlie know more about the first challenge? How could he help?

“Really? What does he know?”

“I have no idea, but he’s in the living room with my dad. Come on!”

Ron led Harry to the living room where a man with long red hair and an earring sat beside Mr. Weasley. Mr. Weasley was shirtless and pulling lint from his bellybutton, entirely unaware that they had come into the room.

“ — can’t believe they brought the nastiest bull for a rodeo with seventeen-year-olds! With the liberals in office, you’d think it wouldn’t be allowed . . .”

The man with the earring groaned.

“Have to pretend you two didn’t hear that.” He cracked a smile. “You must be Harry.”

Harry nodded. “You must be Charlie.”

“They brought me in to handle the bulls. Longtime rodeo clown.” He glanced at Mr. Weasley. “I’m not supposed to tell you anything but since my dad spilled the beans, guess it doesn’t matter.”

“So what can you tell me?”

Charlie shrugged. “They got four bulls. Two are mean, one is really mean, and one is the most aggressive bull in the rodeo circuit.”

“Well that’s . . . reassuring.”

“Yeah, well, didn’t tell you it was good news.” Charlie sipped his beer. “You ain’t really seventeen.”

“No,” Harry said, “I’m not. I uh — I lied.”

Charlie nodded. “Well, the bulls won’t care how old you are.”

Harry gulped.

* * *

“Bulls?” Hagrid asked, patting Curmudgeon the Gator on the head. The gator snapped at him and he chuckled. “Feisty today, ain’t ya, Mudgey?”

“Yes, bulls!” Harry exclaimed. “Hagrid, what do I do? He said they were mean, really mean, and the most aggressive bull in the rodeo circuit.”

“Said that, did he?” Hagrid asked. “Wow. Maybe Maxime would like to see them.”

“Maxime?” Harry asked, blinking. “Who is — okay, I don’t care! Hagrid, I need help!”

Hagrid groaned.

“Look, the rodeo’s been the same thing forever. You’ve gotta get past the bull, shave the sheep, and chug the beer before the time goes or the bull kills ya.”

“ _ Kills _ me?!”

“I mean, he’ll want to. That’s nature, innit?” He clucked his tongue. “Come on, Mudgey. Come here! Good boy!”

Harry watched Hagrid pet his gator’s belly, wishing he somehow had the same touch with nature that Hagrid did.


	44. The Mule Ball

Harry dragged his feet to the Mule Ball. He was dressed in overalls and a straw hat like Minerva told him was traditional, and he thought he looked rather ridiculous. He was shocked when he bumped into Ron, who was wearing overalls without a t-shirt at all.

“You’re supposed to wear a shirt with these.”

Ron shook his head. “I’m going with the classic. Padma’s going to love it.”

“You think so?” Harry asked, frowning down at his outfit. “I don’t think girls like guys in overalls.”

“You’re thinking of city girls.” Ron reached to pull up his sleeves but then realized he didn’t have any and tucked his hands in his pockets. “Girls around here will appreciate a good pair of overalls.”

“Damn right.”

Harry pivoted on his heel to see Parvati and Padma grinning. Padma immediately latched onto Ron’s arm and looked up at him, longingly. Ron went red in the cheeks.

“The overalls suit you, Harry,” Padma said.

“But the classic is better,” Ron cut in. “No shirt is the way to go.”

“I can’t say I hate it,” Padma murmured, grinning.

“Yeah, well,  _ I’m _ with a Tri-County Champion,” Parvati replied, seizing Harry’s arm. “Come on, Harry. We can’t be late for the square-dance.”

And they weren’t.

They got there just in time for the cover band — The Cotton-Eyed Joes — to start playing the song they were most known for, Cotton Eye Joe.

That was when Harry saw her.

Hermione hadn’t come to the ball with Draco Malfoy at all. Instead, she was dancing with Viktor Krum, and Draco Malfoy scowled at them from the sidelines.

Harry wanted to bask in Malfoy’s sourness, but he couldn’t.

Not when he saw how happy Hermione looked with the lawnmower derbier he was positive she had a massive crush on since summer.

Probably even before that.

“HARRY!”

Harry quickly turned his attention back to Parvati, who looked livid.

“Sorry. I was just —”

“You were just staring at Hermione Granger when you’re on a date with  _ me _ ,” Parvati spat. “Now, come on. We’re supposed to be dancing.”

Harry nodded and they picked up the dance as well as he could manage. After a minute or two, Parvati seemed happier, belting along to the song excitedly as she danced, interrupted by Harry accidentally stomping on her feet over and over again.

“Sorry!” he repeated.

By the end, Parvati was sitting on a hay bale, her feet in an ice bowl she had stolen from beside the beer keg.

She grumbled and nursed her bloodied toes, occasionally glaring up at him.

“I’m really sorry about your feet, Parvati. I didn’t mean to —”

“It’s fine. I should’ve expected it from a city boy,” she mumbled.

“City boy has nothing to do with it,” Padma muttered. “Ron was terrible too.”

Ron grunted halfheartedly. Harry suspected he wasn’t listening to Padma at all, because he was staring after Hermione the same way Harry had been. From afar, he saw Draco was staring at her the same way.

But Harry saw there was some semblance of hope for Ron.

Beside Draco was the girl with the pug nose, but she looked much less puggish than normal. With makeup, she was actually quite pretty, and she smirked at Ron and waggled her fingers from afar. Draco didn’t even seem to notice her.

“So are you going to talk to me or what?” Padma asked, glaring at Ron.

“I dunno. What do you want me to say?”

Padma scoffed and turned around. Eventually, a Bulgarian man came up and asked her to dance. She scurried away with him, eagerly.

Ron didn’t seem to care.

“Hermione looks nice,” he said, finally.

“Her hair’s a mess,” Parvati growled, arms crossed.

Moments later, Hermione approached them, a grin on her face. Parvati looked furious.

“Viktor went to go sneak us a few beers,” Hermione whispered, sitting down beside them. “Isn’t it great? I can’t wait til they bring the mule out.”

Harry nearly questioned what the mule was, but he didn’t get the chance.

“You’re dressed like a whore, you know,” Ron said, suddenly.

_ “What?” _ Hermione asked, looking down at her denim shorts and flannel shirt. “ _ You’re _ the one that showed up with no shirt!”

“Yeah but I’m a guy. It doesn’t matter if I look like a whore.”

That was probably the worst thing he could’ve said.

Hermione took off one of her cowboy boots and chucked it at Ron’s face, muttering something about helping Krum muck the stalls at the Goyles’ place where he was staying.

She then stormed off.

“You two are pathetic,” Parvati said before storming off. 

“What did I do?” Harry asked.

But Parvati didn’t answer, and Harry was left alone with Ron, who was vigorously scrubbing his face with the bib of his overalls.

“It’s horse shit! She got  _ horse shit  _ on my face!”

“Yeah, well, you were kind of asking for it.” Harry nodded at the girl by Malfoy. “That girl was looking at you, you know.”

The girl was now cackling along with Malfoy, pointing at Ron.

“Really?” he asked, scrubbing much more vigorously. “That’s Pansy Parkinson.”

“Am I supposed to know her?”

“She’s rich,” Ron explained. “Way too good for me.”

“Well, she didn’t seem to think so. At least not until the horse shit thing happened.”

Ron groaned.

“AND AS IS TRADITION! HERE IS THE MULE!”

Harry saw Ludo Bagman in the center of the barn, a microphone in hand. Through the main entrance, a woman with short hair was pulling in a mule. It whinnied and bleated as she pulled it inside.

“Thanks, Grubbly-Plank, thanks. And it’s time for the mule dance!”

Harry didn’t know what to expect with the mule dance, but he didn’t think it would be a slow dance. He watched the crowd as everyone teamed up with their partners.

Hagrid with Madam Maxime. Alfred and Gellert danced as Minerva stood nearby and kissed their cheeks. No Sirius and Lupin because they couldn’t be there, but he suspected they would be dancing too. Snape stood by the wall glaring, which seemed perfectly normal.

Then there they were.

Krum and Hermione.

If Harry’s heart hurt before, it had been put in a blender now.

“Wanna ditch?” Harry asked Ron. “You need to wash your face.”

Ron nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

And so they left.


	45. Farts, Cheese Puffs, and Making Out

Molly Weasley scrubbed Ron’s face as Harry sat on the sofa beside Mr. Weasley. It smelled like farts and cheese puffs there.

“Now, whatever you did for that girl to do that to you —”

“I didn’t do anything!” Ron argued.

“I might’ve been born at night but I wasn’t born  _ last _ night,” Mrs. Weasley said, shaking her rag at him.

It had been nearly an hour after the dance ended that Fred, George, and Ginny showed up. Harry thought Ginny was a bit young to be at a dance, but when he thought about it, he hadn’t remembered her being there at all.

She had probably been somewhere else causing trouble.

“Sorry for being late, Mother. Angelina wanted to  _ make out _ .”

Mrs. Weasley threw the rag at him. The poor guy had no idea what she’d been cleaning with it.

“George Weasley!”

George sniffed the rag and made a face. Harry and Ron snickered at each other, and Harry was finally glad for something to smile about that day.

“You nervous for the challenge, Harry?” Mr. Weasley asked from behind his newspaper.

Harry bit his lip. He had nearly forgotten about it, even if just for the night.

“Trying not to be. Hard when you know the angriest bull on the rodeo circuit will be there waiting to kick my —” He glanced at Mrs. Weasley. “ — butt.”

“Yes well, I’m sure you’ll do great.” Mr. Weasley turned the page of his newspaper. “Just think as smartly as you can. Surely you’ll do fine.”

Harry’s stomach churned. He wasn’t sure how to think smartly, especially without Hermione.

* * *

Harry knocked on the bright red door. It was the nicest door in the entire county, probably. At least, that’s what it felt like.

After what seemed like an hour, the door opened and a man with a severe face stared down at him.

“What do you want?”

“Erm — I’m Harry Potter. Hermione’s friend?”

“Hermione is not available right now,” Mr. Granger replied. “Perhaps, you’d like to come back another time when she’s here?”

Harry pulled his eyebrows together. Something told him he wasn’t welcome at the Grangers’ house, so instead of returning that night, he went to bed.

* * *

Blood was everywhere. The bull’s horn had gone right through his middle, cutting through his insides and pulling his guts out. Guts he could see. Guts that were in his hands.

“Sorry, Harry!” Charlie Weasley shouted from across the show-ring. “He was really pissed, just couldn’t get him to look at me! Hope you’ll forgive me!”

And dripping blood, Harry could do nothing but nod.

“Hey, Potter!”

He turned to look at the bleachers. Only four people sat there. Sirius. Hermione. Malfoy. Krum.

“What?” he asked, his voice very much not sounding like his own.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” Malfoy shouted.

Hermione shrieked with laughter and squeezed his hand. Harry couldn’t help the pang of jealousy, but he was all too aware of his own guts in his hands.

“Do you need help, Harry Potter?” Krum asked. “I can help you.”

Hermione kissed him on the cheek.

“Yeah, Harry, Krum can help you!” She blushed. “He’s really brilliant, you know!”

And Harry wheezed and wheezed as he tried to reply to her, but no words came out, and then finally — 

Harry woke with a start.

“Good, you’re awake.”

He furrowed his brow and looked up to see Minerva fussing with one of the mounted pheasants.

“Not on purpose. I was having a night —”

“You need to get up. The tournament is tomorrow and you have some training to do. The earlier you start the better.”

Harry looked at the clock.

“It’s three in the morning!”

“Well then, that’s pretty earlier isn’t it.” She glared at him. “Hop to!”


End file.
